Merge
by Dagmar Buse
Summary: Take a magical illness during their eighth year at Hogwarts, Muggle methods of treatment and two young wizards while Dumbledore's Army  sort of  fights again. Stir well, and wait for results!  H/D, mostly pre-slash; side pairing Ron/Hermione
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:**All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Author's Notes:** This was written for the 2011 H/D Smoochfest on LiveJournal, prompt #38 submitted by **Vaysh11**:

_**Time Period:**__ 8th year__  
><em>_**Place:**__ Hogwarts Castle and environs__  
><em>_**Object/Word Prompts:**__ flowering apple trees, a kiss by the lake, memories of the dead__  
><em>_**Action:**__ Professor Slughorn, who is rather disenchanted with Harry's abilities in potions, orders Draco to give Harry remedial potions lessons. Harry abhors to be taught anything by Draco, and Draco hates to even be in the same room as Harry. But when a strange case of dragon pox breaks out in Hogwarts, Draco and Harry together come up with the cure. During those long nights locked into the potions lab, pouring over dusty old books and stirring simmering potions, they fall in love with each other.__  
><em>_**Squicks/dislikes:**__ blond/brunet used for Draco/Harry__  
><em>_**Preferences/Other Notes:**__ Feel free to change the prompt to your liking._

My first-ever _Harry_ _Potter_ fic! And it's Harry/Draco! (Yeah, yeah … I start writing in a new fandom, and it's slash. Like _that_ has never happened before!) It's the first time I participated in any kind of fest, and I did it as a pinch hitter, too – just because this huge plot bunny hopped up out of nowhere and bit me when I read the prompt, and I just _knew_ I'd be able to break my 29-month-long (!) writer's block with it! Although, in true form for me, what I envisioned as a quick'n'easy, roughly 8K fic almost immediately grew out of proportion until I submitted a 24K mini-monster. *sigh* Now I'm rewriting it to post for _me_, and I'm absolutely positive it's going to be even longer than that. (Those of you who know me – is anyone _really_ surprised? … Thought not. *grins*) – Okay, last of the technical stuff: the rating will eventually be M/R, there's a side pairing of Ron/Hermione, and no warnings apply (other than I don't believe in exclusively top!/bottom!either boy. So yes, purists, there _will_ be switching. Sorry!). Oh yeah, and no epilogue, either!

**Note to Vaysh11: **This is the extended version I promised you when the fic first went up at Smoochfest; thanks for giving the option of fitting your prompt to my – _ie_, the story's – needs. (Couldn't have the boys at odds anymore, sorry!)

Everyone enjoy, I hope, and please pass by the feedback box on your way out?

Merge

By Dagmar Buse

_**Prologue**_

"He'll never stand for it."

"He will, if he intends to pass his NEWTs."

"But why me? Surely Granger …"

"Mr. Malfoy, while Miss Granger is very competent at Potions, she doesn't quite have your natural flair. And while I'm aware that she is one of Mr. Potter's closest friends and you have a … somewhat more volatile history with him, I still believe that you can be the better teacher. _If_ you can let go of old grievances."

The image of steady green eyes meeting his own, and a hand holding out a familiar hawthorn wand to him rose within Draco's mind. He knew now, as he'd known then, that the implied offer had been sincere, and hadn't changed since they'd both returned to Hogwarts to finish their schooling. In fact, some of their classmates were actually starting to speculate whether he and Potter might eventually become friends, sacrilegious as the thought would have been less than a year ago.

"That … won't be a problem, sir," was all he said, though. Horace Slughorn smiled at the slender young man before him.

"Good, good," he beamed. "Then it's all settled. If Mr. Potter's next attempt at brewing doesn't turn out significantly better than in the past few weeks, I'll appoint you his tutor."

_*Not bloody likely.* _Harry Potter might have saved the Wizarding World four months ago, but he was still pants at Potions. Draco barely suppressed a small smirk. _*At least there's __one__ thing I'm better at than you, Scarhead!* _

The Potions master stood from his chair, Draco rising with him. Slughorn laid a comradely hand on a still too-thin shoulder as he guided Draco towards the door of his office. "A word of advice, my boy?"

"Sir?" Draco maintained a polite façade as the older man's usually genial expression took on a more crafty cast.

"Helping the Saviour achieve his goal of becoming an auror can only be of benefit to you … and your family's name, perhaps. Do not waste this opportunity."

Draco nodded once, understanding the implications. Slughorn was doing him a favour, and there would be payback exacted … eventually. *_Once a Slytherin, always a Slytherin.* _

"Don't worry, Professor. I won't."

He left, pondering the possibility that the about-to-be-enforced proximity and isolation might actually foster the tentative friendship that was developing between him and Potter. He was, however, very definitely _not_ thinking about how this selfsame proximity and isolation was going to increase whatever strange, un-Malfoy-like thing he was beginning to feel towards the Boy-Who-Lived-Again. Or how attractive he was beginning to find the perpetually-messy black mop, the wiry yet athletic build and the expressive green eyes behind glasses Draco's hand itched to remove sometimes.

_*Nuh-uh. I'm not. Not at all. Never. Never, ever.*_

Somehow, Draco Malfoy's inner voice didn't sound very convincing even to its owner at times.

Xx0xX

"A word, please, Mr. Potter."

"Yes, sir." Harry groaned inwardly and stared disconsolately at his potions vial after filling it with a sample of his work. Today's assignment had been to brew a Detoxifying Draught, and it was supposed to have a water-like consistency and a clear aquamarine colour. What sloshed in his cauldron appeared viscous and … teal.

_*Close, but … not quite there.* _Which summed up pretty much the entirety of his Potions experience since he'd started at Hogwarts seven years ago, Harry reflected sourly. Sure, part of that could be laid at Snape's feet – taking out his hatred of James Potter on the son, and his rather uncompromising teaching methods – but Harry was honest enough with himself to admit he'd never applied himself as much as he could have … and that Hermione hadn't been entirely wrong when she'd called using the Half-Blood Prince's book cheating. So Harry had resolved to do his best now that he could look at a year of school, his last, without having a megalomaniac and his minions out to kill him lurking in the background.

_*And I'm doing okay, mostly, just … not in Potions.* _Charms, Transfiguration, Herbology – even after barely a month of school, his marks were already improving, simply by dint of studying regularly and thoroughly, doing his homework on time instead of at the last minute (or just copying Hermione's notes when she let him) and participating more in class. But his Potions work steadfastly missed the mark, sometimes spectacularly so.

At least today's effort was close enough to the expected result to get him a passing mark – but he needed more than that to earn an overall 'Exceeds Expectations' on his NEWTs.

Harry sighed again. 'Close' wasn't going to cut it, not if he ever wanted to get that 'EE' in order to qualify for Auror training. And while Minister for Magic _pro tem _Kingsley Shacklebolt had hinted that he'd be accepted into the academy no matter what, Harry refused to slide in solely on his fame or the merits of the 'Saviour' label the _Daily Prophet _had hung on him and which he desperately wanted to shake. Which meant he _had _to get his Potions grade up, come hell or high water.

Reluctantly, he approached Slughorn's desk as soon as the rest of the eighth-year Advanced Potions students had left the classroom, waiting to hear what his teacher had to say on the matter.

"I assume that you know what this is about, Mr. Potter?" Slughorn asked, not unkindly.

"Yes, sir," Harry mumbled, staring at the array of sample vials. His own wasn't the worst of the lot, if he said so himself, but it was a good ways off the best. "I've gone wrong somewhere _again_."

"Indeed." Slughorn picked up the little flask with Harry's name on the label and tilted it towards the lamps lighting the classroom. "What you've brewed … it's not completely unusable. This potion should clear up minor ailments, as may arise from eating slightly-spoiled food, say, but I'm afraid it's not suitable for anything more sophisticated. As it is, it only barely meets the requirements for an 'Acceptable'."

"I know," Harry said, frustration giving an edge and more volume than proper to his voice. Slughorn's eyebrow rose in astonishment and disapproval, and he reined himself back in with some effort. "Sorry, sir; I didn't mean any disrespect." He ran a hand through his hair, making it even messier than it already was. "It's just, I'm pretty sure I followed all the steps correctly – in fact, I _know_ I did, not just today but in every class since the beginning of term. I'm double-checking myself on all the ingredients, the right order to add everything, and the number of stirs all the time! I really have no clue why nearly all of my potions come out … well, not always _wrong_, exactly, but still _off _somehow."

"Hmmm. Did you remember to switch the direction of your stirring after adding the powdered Runespoor scales?"

Harry nodded emphatically. "I'm positive, sir. Seven stirs clockwise, three widdershins, repeated five times, to seal in the Arithmantic properties."

It was the correct answer, Harry could see it in Slughorn's approving smile, and he allowed himself a small mental pat on the back; at least he'd remembered _that_ much.

_*But that still doesn't explain why my potion didn't come out the way it ought to have!*_

He watched as the Potions professor examined the vial more closely, even going so far as to test the texture and taste by tipping a single drop onto a fingertip while he pondered the problem. At last, Slughorn met his eyes.

"Well, my dear boy, assuming that you have indeed prepared all the ingredients correctly – not diced where you should have chopped or vice versa, for example – there's only one thing I can suggest."

Harry slanted a look at the professor. He had a feeling he wasn't going to like whatever came next. "What's that, sir?"

"You need Remedial Potions, Mr. Potter." Harry barely suppressed a flinch at the phrase. Quickly he reminded himself that Slughorn wastalking about extra tutoring, not using it as a euphemism for Occlumency training like his sessions with Snape during Fifth year. Nobody would be trying to invade his mind forcefully time and again, or mock him with cruelly-barbed sarcasm when he couldn't shield well or fast enough. Drawing a deep breath to dispel the unpleasant memories, Harry nodded glumly.

"I guessed as much."

Slughorn chuckled. "Don't look so despondent, Mr. Potter. You have shown in your sixth year that you _are _capable of brewing with excellent results. Is there any way, perhaps, that you could duplicate whatever it was you did then?" the older man prodded with surprising tact, but Harry just shook his head 'no'. Snape's book had vanished in the fiendfyre that devastated the Room of Requirement, and besides – it wouldn't feel right to use that particular shortcut again.

_*Not after what Snape did, for me and everybody. It'd be just … wrong, somehow.*_

Harry refocussed on Slughorn, who was still talking. "A pity. Well, no matter, I suppose. What has been done once usually can be repeated, and since you _have _shown that you aren't entirely untalented …" The professor smiled. "Who knows, with some extra tutoring you might even regain … former glories, shall we say?" It was obviously meant to sound optimistic, but all Harry could do was produce a weak smile at the attempt. Eventually, Slughorn's hopeful expression faded into nothing and he clapped his hands with forced cheerfulness. "Well then. Let's arrange a time right away, shall we?" A flick of his wand and a murmured incantation produced a parchment with Harry's class schedule overlaid on a table listing the classrooms in use. Another schedule was added, and common free times in all three lit up in bright green. "Perfect. The small lab right off the dungeons staircase is free on most nights, and this group of seventh-years can easily be shifted to another room. How does tomorrow night, half an hour after your last class, suit?"

_*Not at all,* _Harry was tempted to say. _*That's when I'd planned to watch the Gryffindor Quidditch practice with Ron, now that we can't play ourselves!* _But his newfound resolve to put a greater emphasis on his studies this year held, so he acquiesced quietly. At least he'd still finish in time for dinner.

"Good, good. I'll let Mr. Filch know so you and your tutor won't be disturbed." He gathered his wand, papers and the rack of vials, then ushered Harry towards the classroom door, following close on his heels.

Harry frowned as he reached for the door's handle. That sounded almost as if it wasn't going to be Slughorn who'd tutor him – which was equally a relief and slightly alarming. "Won't I be seeing _you_ tomorrow then, Professor?" he asked, making sure.

"Oh, no, Potter; I couldn't possibly! Wednesday nights are reserved for my little soirées, if you'll remember. Pity you'll have to miss them … but I suppose that can't be helped," Slughorn said jovially. "Our Saviour's future career is far more important than a modest social gathering. Maybe you can find the time once you're all caught up on Potions, yes?"

_*What, Slug Club again? A whole evening of listening to people brag and Slughorn brownnosing the lot? Not in this lifetime – or for all the gourmet food in the world,* _Harry resolved then and there, but he could hardly say _that _out loud to the man, now could he? _*Even if I sort of have a new lifetime to do things in.*_ He stifled a slightly guilty smirk, not daring to test his newfound appreciaton of snark on a teacher. No, better to skirt the issue of attending altogether. "Um, who's going to tutor me then, sir?"

Slughorn juggled his paraphernalia into a more comfortable position and herded Harry into the hallway outside the Potions lab. "Why, Mr. Malfoy, of course," he announced grandly, locking the door with a murmured spell. "He is, after all, the most competent Potions student in your year, dear boy."

Harry couldn't quite stifle a groan, and Slughorn patted his shoulder. "I'm sure two such fine young men as yourselves can put aside your former schoolyard rivalry, can't you?"

"Sure," Harry muttered, averting his face as a lead weight seemed to settle somewhere in the region of his stomach. Of all people, did it _have _to be Malfoy?

The Head of Slytherin House might have wanted to help a Slytherin student out of House loyalty, but he was also, if not foremost, an inveterate sycophant. And given that Harry was the man who'd defeated Voldemort, Slughorn tried to sweeten the situation. "Of course, should you find it absolutely impossible to work with Mr. Malfoy, maybe you could ask your friend Miss Granger to oblige you?"

For a few seconds, Harry was tempted. Oh, how he was tempted! He was used to working with Hermione, she knew exactly when and how much to prod him, she never stinted on praise when he got something right … but then he remembered how often and how much he'd _always _relied on her, the way she was already fretting about getting good marks on her NEWTs after missing a whole year of school (the 'because of him' remained unsaid, but Harry was very much aware of it regardless), and how little time she and Ron were having to themselves …

_*I can't do this to her. Not after everything she's already done for me since First year.*_

Besides, it wasn't as if he was still at war with Malfoy.

Harry had made his peace with the other boy during the summer. Anything else would've been completely ridiculous, not to mention hypocritical, once Harry had spoken up for Draco and his mother in front of the Wizengamot. As a result, Narcissa and Draco had been put on probation instead of joining Lucius in Azkaban, and when Harry had returned the hawthorn wand to its rightful owner they'd discovered that both of them had lost their appetite for fighting.

So far, their truce was working out fine; Malfoy was keeping the snark to a minimum, and Harry was doing his best to control his temper. As the weeks passed, it seemed to be getting easier, even.

_*So how bad can being tutored by him be?*_

A part of Harry's mind told him 'a lot', but another part, one that appeared to be growing steadily stronger the longer the two of them managed to stay polite towards each other, was drowning out the first.

_*Maybe we can even bury the hatchet completely …* _As time was passing, Harry had actually begun to hope that an actual friendship was developing between the two of them. Surely they could at least be cordial acquaintances? Harry ruthlessly silenced the tiny little whisper at the back of his mind that longed for even more than friendship.

_*I need to sort myself out first. I don't even __know__ what this thing is I'm starting to feel when I'm around Malfoy. And once I have,I must tell Ron and Hermione. And Ginny.* _He swallowed surreptitiously; _that_ was one conversation he was notlooking forward to! _*And after that … maybe. If I still feel the same. If I even have a snowball's chance in hell that Malfoy isn't going to hex me to Kingdom come before I've finished explaining. Never mind what __he's__ feeling!* _Another thought popped into his mind. _*Anyway, we'll be spending a lot more time together with this tutoring gig; and there's always a stretch or two when a potion just has to simmer, or set, or whatever. We could, I dunno, get to know each other better. And if everything goes perfectly just this once … maybe something good __will__ happen?* _

Suddenly, the prospect of several hours a week brewing potions didn't seem so bad at all. Not if it meant he might find out what he wanted to know of the blond Slytherin during these tutoring sessions. Or privacy to … whatever.

"No, Malfoy's fine," Harry replied to Slughorn's suggestion before he could change his mind. _*I just hope I'm not going to regret this!*_

Lost in thought, Harry left the dungeons for the Great Hall, his appetite for dinner all but driven away by the two full teams of Cornish pixies playing Quidditch in his stomach all of a sudden. He was _not _exchanging his former obsession with Malfoy with developing a … a _crush_ on the git – worse than the one he'd had for Cho Chang in fourth year, too.

_*Nuh-uh. I'm not. Not at all. Never. Never, ever.*_

Somehow, Harry Potter's inner voice didn't sound very convincing even to its owner at times.

_TBC …_

7


	2. Chapter 1: Laying the Groundwork

**Merge**

**All usual disclaimers apply. **Please pass by the feedback box on your way out?

_**Chapter 1: Laying the Groundwork**_

"Alright, Potter, let's start with the basics," Malfoy ordered matter-of-factly not even five minutes into their first session. "I'm assuming you _can_, in fact, read – and thus follow a recipe – so the problem most likely is in the how, not the what, when or why."

Malfoy wrote his last sentence, words Professor Slughorn kept repeating like a mantra in each lesson, on the lab's blackboard with a slightly mocking bow and flamboyant flick of his wand, making Harry grin. He could just about picture Snape's reaction to Malfoy's theatrics.

"A fine display of foolish wand-waving, Malfoy," he quipped before his brain could engage his inner censor. Harry snickered when Malfoy faltered and did a classic double-take. "First lesson with Snape, remember?"

"Of course I do," Malfoy said softly, his eyes searching Harry's for any trace of mockery. Finding none, he quirked a small smile. "Unfortunately, while I'm good I can't teach you to … how did Sev always put it? 'Bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses. I can tell you how to bottle fame, brew glory' …"

"… and even put a stopper in death," Harry finished the quote alongside Malfoy, both their voices subdued with memories. "You still miss him, don't you." It wasn't a question.

"Yes," Malfoy replied quietly. After a minute or so he slanted a glance at Harry. "Guess you don't."

"Actually, I do, too," Harry answered to Malfoy's surprise. "He did so much for me over the years, things I never knew … without him, I couldn't have defeated Voldemort. I just wish I could've thanked him just once."

Draco was dead certain there was a story he'd be dying to hear behind the simple statement, but he also knew that now wasn't the time to ask for it. _*Maybe one day in the future, if we __do__ manage to become friends through this …* _Instead, he sent a sly wink towards his companion.

"If you had, he'd most likely have cut you to ribbons with his tongue," he said with somewhat forced lightness. "Sev wasn't the most … er, gracious person."

"I know," Harry muttered. "Trust me, if I've learned just _one _thing from Snape, it's that he and the so-called 'social graces' might as well speak different languages altogether where I was concerned," he added with a rueful little laugh.

"Good grief, Potter, are you insinuating that Professor Snape didn't _like_ you?" Malfoy mock-gasped.

"Yes. Shocking, isn't it?" Harry grinned, finding his emotional balance again as the memories and the inevitable regret receded. "Next thing you'll know, I'll be accusing him of blatant favoritism towards Slytherins, and having an irrational, unjustified grudge against Gryffindors in general and me in particular."

Malfoy was eyeing him with an expression Harry couldn't quite read. "Tell me, Potter, did Granger teach you all those big words?"

"No, you pillock, I picked them up when nobody was looking," Harry snorted. Eighteen months ago, he would've had trouble keeping his temper in check; today, he could appreciate the snark for what it was – a Malfoyese almost-compliment that was actually somewhat funny. _*If one doesn't mind having the mickey taken out of oneself,*_ he admitted to himself.

Unfortunately, the brief flash of humour had to pass eventually, and Malfoy was the first to recover.

"Anyway. Back to the matter at hand – namely, whether you're indeed having problems with how rather than what, when and/or why," he said briskly after clearing his throat.

"That's what Professor Slughorn thinks, I guess," Harry muttered glumly, slumping in his seat. "Only, I really don't see …"

"It doesn't matter what _you _see or don't see, Potter," Malfoy interrupted him, not wholly unkindly. "Or what my former Head of House thinks, either. I prefer to make my own evaluation of what you can or can't do so I can determine how to best help you, if you don't mind."

"That … is fair enough, I suppose," Harry sighed. In fact, it closely resembled the way Hermione had managed to get him and Ron through any number of exams since they were eleven. He could still remember the way she'd drilled him on the Summoning charm during the Triwizard Tournament, or how patiently she'd taught him the obscuring and defensive charms and spells they'd used to evade capture through most of last year. The only difference was, he'd trusted Hermione not to lead him wrong. The tentative truce between him and Malfoy was still too new for Harry to be wholly comfortable about accepting instruction from his former enemy. Malfoy might try to stay objective, but Harry knew the other boy well enough to sense that he was rather pleased with the situation in general – and that there was most likely some kind of reward in it for Malfoy.

*_I … I don't really care, as long as my Potions grade goes up,* _Harry realized. _*At least he isn't as insufferably smug about it anymore, like he used to be!*_

The thought was strangely cheerful, but before Harry could analyze the unusual feeling, he was jerked back to his surroundings by an impatient "Some time this century, Potter?" He glared at Malfoy just on principle, but resignedly took out his book, parchment and quill before lining up his set of cutting knives, scales and cauldron.

"Ready when you are."

"Potter, where Potions are concerned I was _born_ ready. You, however…"

And they were off again, sniping at each other with nearly every word.

In other words, business as usual.

00xXx00

Two sessions later (in which they'd managed to cover an astonishing amount of material despite the constant barrage of quips, putdowns and trading of insults, much to Harry's surprise), the former Slytherin had seen and heard enough.

"I don't get it, Potter," Malfoy said flatly as he closed his copy of _NEWT-Level Potions_ with a snap. "Both you and Slughorn were right – you have a reasonable, if not exactly stellar, grasp of Potions theory, you are capable of following directions without excessive prompting – even though you're unlikely to ever brew most potions without a recipe to go by – and yet you manage to screw up anything more complicated than Pepper-Up over half the time." He shook his head and leaned back in his chair, losing the somewhat pompous attitude. "Really, you _should _be doing much better by now. What's wrong?"

Harry glanced at the other boy, decided that the look in the grey eyes held more puzzlement and curiosity than disdain, and shrugged.

"I thought you were sent here by Slughorn to find out and tell me," he grumped.

"No, I'm here to point out _all _of your shortcomings, not just the obvious ones," Malfoy deadpanned while raking his eyes up and down Harry's body.

For a second, Harry bristled at what seemed to be a mocking reference to his stature, but reason reasserted itself almost right away. There was nothing wrong with being of average height, after all, and compared to Malfoy's (and Ron's) six-foot-plus, almost _everyone _in the school looked like a runt. Then he caught the barely-visible wink the Slytherin sent him and had to grin despite himself. Ever since their first session, mouthing off at Malfoy had become almost a game – for both of them. Malfoy rarely took offense and merely retaliated in kind – which had made Remedial Potions into a rather enjoyable experience for Harry, especially as he _knew_ he was learning at the same time.

Not that he'd ever admit as much to anyone, of course. Least of all Malfoy!

But it was an unexpected bonus for Harry that he was suddenly able to practice a new skill he'd been desperate to pick up – witty repartee. The one thing Malfoy had been much better prepared for and schooled in than him, even at age eleven.

_*I'm catching up, though. I know I am!*_

After the Final Battle, throughout the period of near-constant funerals, Harry and Hermione had stayed at the Burrow, grieving with the Weasleys and taking comfort from each other's company. But Hermione had been itching to retrieve her parents from Australia (or at least to restore their memories), Ron wasn't going to let her go on her own, and Harry had realized that he needed time by himself to come to terms with a lot of things. So the trio had left Ottery St. Catchpole after Harry's eighteenth birthday, Ron and Hermione in search of the Grangers, and Harry to London.

Harry needed a place to stay, and he'd decided at one point that he wasn't going to ignore Sirius' legacy … but the pain of having lost his Godfather was still too fresh now that he had time to grieve properly. Thus, living at 12 Grimmauld Place was out of the question. For the time being, Harry just couldn't face the house and all its memories. After thinking it over, he decided that maybe after he'd finished school and the house had been given a thorough renovation and magical cleansing he might want to move there eventually. A casual inquiry to Arthur and Bill Weasly had shown that as a feasible option, more so since money was not really an of legal age in the Muggle world now as well, it was no problem to set up a regular bank account through Gringotts, credit card and all, and after a week or so in a room at the Leaky Cauldron found private lodgings in Shepherd's Bush. He was close enough to Charing Cross Road – and thus Diagon Alley – via the Tube, but far away enough that the Wizarding media couldn't hound him. So he attended the Death Eater trials at the Ministry when he was needed, and explored all that London had to offer to a wealthy young man at all other times. In the evenings, or when he didn't feel like going out, he'd taken to watching television, for the first time in his life without any restrictions.

That was when Harry discovered and fell irrevocably in love with classic British comedy.

_Blackadder. Fawlty Towers. Monty Python. _All that was witty, intelligent and hilariously funny. He caught a rerun here and there at first, and when he mentioned to his landlady that there wasn't enough of it on the box to satisfy his newfound interest, she just laughed, told him to get a VCR and register with a video rental service. Which he did, and he'd been in heaven ever since. _The Holy Grail _saw him through the sleepless nights when he would have otherwise been wallowing in guilt over the deaths of Fred, Remus and Tonks; _The Life of Brian _saved his sanity when nightmares of walking to his death in the Forbidden Forest would otherwise have had him cowering under his blankets.

Billy Connolly, Eddie Izzard and Lenny Henrytaught Harry to appreciate the art of innuendo, irony, sarcasm and subtle provocation. Apart from rarely letting him watch TV at all, the Dursleys had never watched anything on TV that would've challenged them intellectually like these comedians did – or the way that they would mock and set conventions on their collective ears. It just didn't fit their notion of what was 'normal'.

The comedians also taught Harry it was okay to talk back – even to someone older, someone in authority.

Knowing when to keep his mouth shut and _not_ smart-mouth whoever was hacking him off had been a hard lesson to learn for Harry, but necessity, as always, was a good taskmaster. It had enabled him to keep the peace while he was forced to stay with his relatives, to stand up under Rita Skeeter's slandering, swallow the worst of Snape's taunts and ultimately be Dumbledore's perfect pawn, but now he was _past _all that at last, accountable only to his own conscience … and Harry reveled in a freedom he'd never had before.

Unfortunately, he soon found out that his newfound appreciation of sarcasm and often off-colour or dark humour wasn't shared by his friends. Ron lacked most of the references, and while he was by no means stupid, he wasn't skilled at quick repartee. As liberal as Hermione was in most things, she could be too quick to take offense at what wasn't one-hundred percent politically correct, and – truth be told – she also was a bit of a prude. Ginny preferred the more slapstick-y pranks her brothers excelled at, whereas Neville was just a tad too traditional and too easily-hurt by a biting quip, although he'd see the humour if one took time to reassure him it wasn't meant personally. And Luna … Luna 'got it', he could see, but rather than respond in kind would just smile that maddeningly serene smile of hers and tell him she liked seeing him happy and beginning to enjoy life again.

Harry still loved his friends dearly and didn't hold it against them, but he was delighted to discover that Malfoy, always a master at verbal sparring, now strove to tone down the cutting edge of his comments and managed to make them genuinely funny. Even if he was still poking fun at _Harry_ most of the time.

In the past, Harry had had no concept or experience of responding in kind; instead he would've been goaded into retaliating with crude insults, his fists or a quick hex. Now he welcomed the challenge to hone his own repartee with a willing, intelligent partner.

"Bloody prat," Harry murmured for form's sake.

"Draco Malfoy, at your service," replied Hogwarts' undisputed Master of Snark with a mockingly-elaborate bow. Harry bit his lip to hold back his laughter; that'd mean a tacit admission Malfoy had won.

"Oh, shut it, you."

This rather feeble riposte won him the first raised eyebrow of the day.

_*When the hell did I start keeping score of Malfoy's expressions?* _Harry wondered briefly even as he was distracted by Malfoy's growing smirk.

"That's lame, Potter, even by your admittedly pathetic standards."

Harry blew him a raspberry.

"My point exactly," the Slytherin sniffed, then switched gears without preamble. "Come on, Potter, you outperformed us all in sixth year, even Granger and myself – yet now you're almost as hopeless as Longbottom."

_*Was that almost a compliment?* _a part of Harry's brain – the one that had begun to notice every tiny detail of Malfoy's actions, comments and looks, at entirely inappropriate (in Harry's opinion) moments – piped up. He overrode it with the ease of someone who was getting lots of practice at this kind of thing. _*Nah.*_

" You can't have forgotten _everything _while you were out on your countryside ramble with Granger and Weasley," Malfoy complained without giving Harry a chance to reply. "Didn't you pack at least _one _book that would've helped you to keep up with your schoolwork?"

"Actually, Hermione did," Harry said dryly. "Including _'Hogwarts: A History', _if you must camping out away from almost all civilization for a whole year doesn't exactly lend itself to studying potions. Moreover, I was kind of distracted by this whole having-to-defeat-Voldemort thing, in case you've forgotten."

Malfoy blanched, then flushed almost painfully hard. "Oh. That." An embarrassed silence threatened to swallow them, but Malfoy quickly recovered his usual aplomb and cleared his throat. "I suppose that may be counted as a valid excuse, then."

"Gee, thanks."

"Don't mention it."

"Trust me, I won't." This was one topic, Harry knew, that they would have to talk about eventually, no matter what they ended up being – simply former schoolmates, friends or perhaps more, if Harry's as-of-now still rather vague dreams should ever take solid form. But now was not the time, he reminded himself sternly, and brought the conversation back on topic with a slightly strained grin. "Besides, I haven't blown up a cauldron since before we took our OWLs."

Malfoy silently acknowledged the change in topic with a minuscule nod and a skeptically-raised eyebrow regarding Harry's last statement. _*That's two,* _Harry noted automatically, then gave himself a mental kick._ *Dammit, Potter, STOP THIS!*_

"At least not unless _someone _deliberately sabotaged my potion," he managed to add, giving the other young man a slightly challenging look.

"Yeah, well," Malfoy muttered, colouring up again as he turned halfway aside in obvious chagrin, busying himself with his quill and parchment. "It, um, kind of was expected. What with you being a Gryffindork, me being a Slytherin and all."

_*More like me being the Dark Wanker's mortal enemy and you his main financier's son,* _Harry translated, briefly flashing back to the revelations Lucius had made under Veritaserum at his trial. The Malfoy patriarch had committed his share of crimes as a Death Eater, but to a lot of people's surprise had stopped just short of outright murder, preferring to support his master in ways more suitable to his aristocratic standing. Which didn't get him out of a lengthy prison sentence or raised the Wizarding world's opinion of him, but was much easier to bear for his wife and son.

Harry harrumphed and let it drop; instead he just sent a medium-strength glare in Malfoy's direction. "Git."

The blond muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "pot, meet cauldron," but it was said softly enough that Harry could pretend he hadn't heard. Instead, he pushed his own textbook aside as well.

"So what do you suggest we try next?" Harry asked with a marked lack of enthusiasm. Bantering regularly with Malfoy might be fun, but he still hated Potions.

Malfoy chewed on a corner of his bottom lip as he considered the problem. The patch of pale-pink skin plumped up and deepened in colour to a rich rosy-red, and Harry had to exert every ounce of control at his disposal when he realized how fascinated he was by the sight. Embarrassed, he quickly bent down to his bag and rummaged aimlessly within. _*Why did I choose Malfoy over Hermione again? And why the hell must I notice these things anyhow, especially now when I'm not even sure yet I __want__ to notice these things about Malfoy? Or __any__ other bloke, really?* _He had no answer, but he knew he couldn't stay hunched over indefinitely. Grabbing a random piece of parchment from the bottom of his bag, he straightened up again, grateful that the small exertion would explain his heightened colour and was able to meet Malfoy's quizzical look with apparent innocence.

"Well? Have any major revelations yet?"

Malfoy sighed. "Not really." He unexpectedly rotated his neck and shoulders, loosening muscles grown stiff from sitting at ancient wooden desks all day that were just a bit too uncomfortable for his tall frame. Losing a goodly percentage of his usual near-perfect posture made Malfoy look much more approachable, and Harry couldn't help the slight surge of pleasure coursing through him as he listened to the other boy's suggestion. "I think I'll let you brew a potion all by yourself tomorrow, and will simply watch your technique from preparation to finish. Maybe that will give us a clue."

Harry slumped in his seat. It wouldn't be as bad as Snape's looming scrutiny, but he knew that he tended to get fidgety if anyone watched him too closely. Adding to that the awareness he was developing about everything Malfoy, and Harry was starting to suspect he just might be pretty much screwed.

0o0xXx0o0

The next day, the boys met again in their usual small potions lab after classes. As soon as their cauldrons were set up, Malfoy pressed a list of ingredients into Harry's hand and shooed him towards the supply cabinet.

"Here, you collect these; I'll get the rest from Slughorn's office."

"What rest?" Harry yelped after a quick glance at the parchment. "Merlin, Malfoy, there's already more than a dozen items on here!"

"Yes, and we'll need them all. We – or rather, _you_ – are going to brew an Influenza Unguent."

"An Ung the what now?"

Malfoy's grin was positively unholy. "Influenza Unguent," he repeated slowly, pronouncing every syllable with deliberate exaggeration. Harry felt like an idiot. But he was given no time to react as Malfoy rambled on with the superior air Harry was used to from nearly seven years of enmity. "Basically, it's a salve that cures most symptoms of full-blown influenza, as opposed to Pepper-Up, which is a potion that was developed to ease general lethargy and was later discovered to also cure most symptoms of the common cold. The Unguent is recommended for use on children, the elderly and generally for patients who are too feeble to cope with Pepper-Up's side effects. It also uses ingredients that require the widest spectrum of techniques, from simple grinding to stirring. Which makes it perfect for me to observe your skills."

_*That … makes sense, actually. Still, bugger!* _Harry huffed resignedly and picked up one of the small baskets at the bottom of the cabinet to put his ingredients in. Thankfully Slughorn had organized the supplies alphabetically, which made them easy to find from his list. With a shudder, Harry recalled Snape's system – under him, everything had been stored by properties. Which, Harry had to admit, made as much, if not more, sense, but complicated collecting ingredients that much more if you hadn't memorized things in advance. _*Well, that's over and done with now,* _Harry thought a little defiantly. Still, a faint touch of nostalgia washed through him as it often did when he was thinking of one of Snape's little idiosyncrasies.

Within five minutes, he stared rather helplessly at the array of fresh, dried, pickled and liquid ingredients lined up between and around his cutting board and cauldron. How on earth was he supposed to remember every little step?

Apparently Malfoy could read his expression with uncommon accuracy. "Don't worry, Potter; I told you, this is an exercise to let me observe your technique. Just follow the directions step by step and take as much time as you need."

"Got it." Drawing a deep breath, Harry quickly read through the instructions twice, then picked up a sprig of fresh rosemary and counted out two dozen needles. Malfoy was doing the same. "What are you doing?"

"Brewing a control sample; not only will you be able to observe how the Unguent is _supposed_ to look during its various stages, I'll also want to compare your effort to the correct method if – no, _when _– you're making a mistake."

"Why must you automatically assume I'm going to make mistakes?" Harry blustered.

"Well, _something _is making your potions come out off, if not completely useless – and while I'll admit that the reason _could _be spoiled ingredients, the likelihood of it happening to you time and again, in _every _Potions class since the first week of September, is extremely low. In my considered opinion, anyway."

Harry glowered at the other boy. "Did I ever tell you I hate it when you're right?"

"In your own, Gryffindorkish way? Yes, rather frequently," Malfoy actually chuckled, then grinned wryly. "If it helps, I'd feel the same way … in the unlikely case that you were right about something and I wasn't."

"Hmph." Harry hid his own reluctant grin under some _sotto voce _grumbling as he aligned the rosemary needles on the cutting board and picked up his knife. The camaraderie that was developing between them was quite a relief. _*Besides, he hasn't given me the Brow of Doom even once today. Yet.*_

Giving himself a mental kick, Harry refocussed on the task at hand – namely, the small pile of rosemary needles before him. "Fine chop, right?"

"Yes. Just make sure it's even pieces."

"Yeah, yeah …" Feeling somewhat put upon at the reminder (which might as well have come from Hermione), Harry started chopping, falling easily into the motions he'd learned years ago in Petunia Dursley's kitchen. Working steadily through his ingredients, he was aware of Malfoy watching his every move even as he was seeing to his own cauldron with almost negligent skill. And yet it didn't bother him the way Snape's hovering at his back or elbow used to. For one thing, he knew he wasn't going to be graded for his potion, he had more than enough time to organize everything, and most importantly of all, he didn't get any kind of snide comments on what he was doing.

One of the last ingredients was a Sopophorous Bean, and Harry smiled to himself as he crushed it with the flat of his blade rather than cutting it up, thus releasing the maximum amount of juice. He had forgotten most of the helpful notes from the Half-Blood Prince's book, but this one stayed with him – and somehow it was a small way of paying homage to the acerbic Potions Master's genius at his craft.

He looked up at Malfoy's astonished gasp. "What?"

"Who taught you that?"

_*Oops.* _"Um, no-one, really. I, erm, picked it up from a book."

"That's impossible," Malfoy declared flatly. "Severus was the one who discovered that crushing a Sopophorous Bean gave you better results than chopping, and he swore to me that he hadn't shared it with _anybody _but me!"

Harry shrugged sheepishly and decided spontaneously that the truth couldn't hurt anymore. "Well … I kind of learned it from Snape's book."

"But Severus never wrote a Potions text," Malfoy frowned.

"No, but he made all kinds of useful notations in his copy of _Advanced Potion-Making_ while he was still at school," Harry said. "Remember when Ron and I were admitted late to Slughorn's class in Sixth year? Neither one of us had the book, Slughorn told us to get some from the classroom cupboard, and Ron beat me to the newer copy. Turned out the other one used to be Snape's, only I didn't know it at the time."

Malfoy's eyes could have rivalled a House-elf's for size. "So _that's_ how you managed to beat both me and Granger for the vial of _Felix Felicis_," he realized.

"Uh huh. Hermione was absolutely _livid_," Harry recalled with a fond smile, completely missing the rush of colour to Malfoy's pale cheeks ... as well as the reluctant admiration flashing up briefly in the grey eyes.

"You … you cheated?"

It was Harry's turn to blush, but he tried to cover it by looking as innocent as possible. "Technically, I didn't," he muttered. "Slughorn only told us to follow the instructions in the text – which I did. It wasn't my fault that the text I was using, _on his orders_, had better instructions than everybody else's …"

Malfoy stared at Harry as if he'd grown an extra head. "Who the fuck are you, and what have you done with the real Potter?" he gasped. "That – that's positively Slytherin!"

Harry smirked. He'd already shared one of his personal secrets with Draco, he might as well go one step further.

"Well, the Sorting Hat _did_ think I'd do well in Slytherin," he said blithely. "But I managed to talk it around."

With a visible effort, Malfoy picked his jaw up from the floor and pointed his cutting knife at Harry. "I don't even want to know," he declared, even though his whole body was vibrating with barely-suppressed curiosity. "But I swear to you, Potter, once we're out of Hogwarts, I'll tie you to a chair, ply you with alcohol and _make_ you tell me all the things you were up to in the past!"

Harry laughed, relieved that his unplanned revelations had gone over comparatively well. *_And what do you know, it wasn't hard at all!*_

"You have a deal – if you'll help me get that 'EE' on my NEWTs, that is."

"Pfft. Piece of cake. Now go back to your potion!"


	3. Chapter 2: Pinpointing the Problem

Merge

**All usual disclaimers apply. **Please pass by the feedback box on your way out?

_**Chapter 2: Pinpointing the Problem**_

Finally, Harry was done with prep and started the actual brewing. He filled his cauldron with the required amount of water, heated it to just below simmering, and began adding his ingredients. Diced toad livers came first, then the Sopophorous Bean juice … jojoba oil went into the mixture before the chopped rosemary, and the shredded eucalyptus leaves were last. When everything was in his cauldron, he started stirring, carefully alternating between clockwise figures-of-eight and four turns widdershin for six and a half minutes. His _Tempus _charm went off just as the liquid began to thicken, and with a sigh of relief Harry doused the flame under his cauldron and lifted it off the tripod. Now it contained a yellowish, opaque paste that still bubbled here and there, releasing a fragrance that was actually rather pleasant.

"Done," Harry said, feeling quite accomplished as he looked at Malfoy. The frown on the pale face was _not _what he'd expected to see, though, and he experienced a twinge of doubt. "Well? What's the verdict?" 

Malfoy's frown deepened. "I think you've botched yet another project, Potter," he replied slowly, poking a careful fingertip into the cooling mass. He rubbed the small glob of potion clinging to his finger onto the back of his other hand, and Harry saw with a sinking feeling that the oil that was supposed to emulsify the mixture left a greasy smear against Malfoy's skin while some of the other ingredients started to coagulate into tiny, wormlike flakes. Also, a glance into Malfoy's cauldron showed a smooth, pearly-white cream that emitted a rich smell of herbs and essential oils. The sheet of parchment next to it was covered top-to-bottom with notes in Malfoy's neat script, several lines of which were heavily underlined.

"Shite," Harry muttered and sank onto his stool, shoulders slumped in defeat. "What the fuck went wrong? I _know _I prepared everything correctly, and added it in the right order!" When Malfoy remained silent, Harry's seedling of doubt grew. "I did … didn't I? Malfoy?"

"Superficially, yes," the Slytherin admitted. "But in detail? Not so much."

"Huh? That doesn't make any sense," Harry protested.

"Does, too; give me a little time to sort through my notes first, though? I think I may have an idea now where your problem lies."

"Well, that's something at least," Harry grumbled. But as Malfoy wasn't being obnoxious about it, he had little choice but to agree. He sighed in frustration and raked a hand through his hair, missing both the fact that the cowlick at the back of his head stood up higher than ever afterwards, and that Malfoy was hiding a slight smile at the sight. "Okay then. Later tonight? I'd like to finish my Transfiguration essay first, depending on how long you think it'll take to list all my shortcomings –"

"There's hardly enough time left this term for _that_, Potter," Draco interrupted him. Harry's eyes snapped to his face, but the heated protest forming on his tongue never made it past his lips – how could it, when Malfoy's mouth was stretched in the warmest grin he'd ever directed at Harry, and one grey eye was winking at him? _*Winking! Malfoy has __never__ winked at me before – he's always laughed __at__ me, not … not practically invited me to laugh __with__ him, like he's doing now!* _

Rather confused, but at the same time willing to go along with this strange new development, Harry let himself chuckle and was rewarded with a like sound. "Prat," he murmured, just so Malfoy didn't get any ideas that he could make fun of Harry without getting challenged.

"As you already told me yesterday," Malfoy replied with equanimity. "You need to work on your repertoire of socially-acceptable insults as well as your Potions skills, it seems."

"My socially-acceptable insults are doing just fine, I'll have you know," Harry sputtered, now torn between laughter and wounded pride. Laughter won. "I hate you!"

"Likewise. Now, do you want me to tell you what you're doing wrong tonight, or can it wait until tomorrow?"

With a sigh, Harry stretched his tired back and legs and began to tidy up. "Much as I'm positively _dying_ to know what all is going wrong in my brewing, I guess we really should wait until next time."

"Ah yes, your essay," Malfoy nodded.

"Not only that," Harry said. A loud growl preempted the need for further explanations. He gestured towards his stomach. "There's this, too. I missed out on lunch," he explained, a little embarrassed.

Right on cue a corresponding rumble could be heard from the other boy.

"Looks as if I'm not the only one starving half to death," Harry chuckled.

"Well, dinner _did _start nearly an hour ago. We'll be lucky if somebody saved us a plate," Malfoy commented, his expression unhappy. He and Harry quickly cleaned up their workspace. "Damn, I was counting on having seconds tonight, too!"

Harry mentally ran through the week's menu, remembered it was Friday and shuddered. "Don't tell me you actually _like _that noodle-and-fish casserole! Eww!"

"It's salmon lasagna _au gratin_, and as it happens it's one of my favorite dishes, yes," Malfoy said a little stiffly.

"But it has spinach in it, and that weird white sauce," Harry whined, green eyes wide with laughter behind his glasses as he shouldered his backpack and preceded Malfoy towards the door. "And cheese on top, too!"

"Exactly. The house-elves here at Hogwarts prepare it with extra-quality gruyère, and their _sauce béchamel_ is to die for.Just because _you _can't appreciate fine food, Potter, doesn't mean others are similarly deprived."

"I appreciate fine food just as much as the next bloke, Malfoy," Harry shot back as they stepped out into the hallway. A murmured password sealed the room until their next session. "I just want it to contain meat and potatoes in some way." 

"That's so Plebeian," Malfoy sniffed, but a smile was lurking behind the haughty demeanor.

It was Harry's turn to smirk. "Whatever. But _I'm _going to the kitchens now to see whether I can't talk the house-elves out of some Shepherds' Pie," he said, relishing the other's astonishment. _*That's one more eyebrow for today … and is that some envy I see?* _Maybe not quite, but there was definitely hunger to match his own, as both their stomachs took that moment to growl again. Suddenly, the prospect of a solitary meal became singularly unappealing, and Harry decided to follow his gut in more than the obvious way.

"Care to join me?"

This time, there was no mistaking the swift change of emotions from surprised incredulity to cautious pleasure. "If you truly mean that …"

"I do. C'mon – Draco." It seemed the most natural thing in the world to touch Malfoy's shoulder like he would've done with Ron as they wandered off towards Hufflepuff territory and a painting with a certain pear waiting to be tickled. Harry felt his insecurities and questions make a tiny, sudden shift towards certainty.

_*I don't know where this is – where __I__ am – going, but right now I don't care. This feels __right__!*_

Xx0o0xX

"So tell me, oh mighty Potions expert, what _am _I doing wrong?"

Malfoy sat opposite him, the scroll with yesterday's notes at his elbow as he regarded Harry with a look that was hard to decipher.

"Do you really want to know?"

"You're joking, right?" Harry exclaimed. "I haven't sat through nearly two weeks of your nagging and sniping to _not _wanting to know what's keeping me from getting an 'EE' in Potions!"

"Just making sure," Malfoy murmured, then inhaled deeply. "Potter, I think you managed to fool pretty much everyone by displaying a good familiarity with basic Potions prep techniques."

"Huh?"

Malfoy gave a half-smile. "You know how to chop, dice, grind, stir et cetera at a speed that most students take a long time to develop. But you do it in a way that belongs more into a kitchen, I imagine, than in a Potions lab. When you dice or chop, it's often uneven. When you grind, it's either too coarse or too fine. What you seem to consider a 'pinch' is more suited to taking Floo powder than brewing. And when you stir, you perform this odd little twist with your stirring rod just before you change directions as if you were scooping up sediment from the bottom of your cauldron when there shouldn't be any. Or if there is, it ought to be strained from the potion afterwards!"

Harry stared at the other young man as he paused for breath, managing only with a supreme effort to keep his jaw from hitting the desk. He'd never noticed any of this himself, but having it pointed out to him so succinctly, he knew Malfoy's observation was perfectly correct.

"For Merlin's sake, Potter – where _did _you learn to brew before Hogwarts? Whoever taught you ought to be hexed!"

Harry snorted. "Don't you remember how Snape showed me up in our first Potions class? My first contact with Potions was here at Hogwarts."

"Then where did you pick up so many … well, bad habits?"

Harry's smile turned brittle. He knew exactly where he'd acquired most of those techniques. "My aunt's kitchen."

Malfoy sent him a puzzled frown. "I don't understand."

With a shrug, Harry did his best to avoid looking into the curious eyes. "Well … that cooking comparison you made? Is pretty much dead on. My aunt taught me how to cook when I was still really small," he explained hesitantly. "Living in a Muggle household and being underage, doing magic wasn't an option, so I had to do everything by hand – the Muggle way. Chopping herbs, slicing veg, grinding spices and so on. Stuff that's not all _that _different from prep for potions." A wry grin twisted Harry's lips as he glanced up at last. "In cooking, it doesn't really matter whether you dump an ingredient into the pot all at once, or dust it on the surface – or whether something gets chopped coarsely, cross-wise or precisely even. Not unless it's for a certain texture or look in the finished dish. Also, it matters more to add the right amount at the right time, rather than in any specific order."

Bemusedly, Malfoy shook his head. "Whereas in Potions, such imprecision can be fatal ..."

"Yeah." Harry found his sense of humour again. "Just so you know – I may not be a master chef, but I can honestly say I've yet to kill or poison someone with my cooking."

"How … reassuring," Malfoy replied sarcastically, recovering his customary poise after such a startling disclosure. "Forgive me if I don't put 'eating a Potter-cooked meal' at the top of my to-do list, though."

"Your loss." Harry grinned briefly. He knew that he actually was fairly decent in the kitchen; if they'd only had _enough_ foodstuffs and a way to prepare them properly, Ron might never have left him and Hermione during the Horcrux hunt just because he'd missed his mother's cooking.

"Hmph. That still doesn't explain why it's only _you _who seems to confuse Potions class with cookery, and not Granger, or any of the other Muggleborns and –raiseds in this school. Merlin's balls, Potter, _Bulstrode _is just as much of a halfblood as you, and _she_ can brew a decent potion more often than not!"

"It's not a Muggle thing," Harry sighed. "It's a Dursley thing."

"Excuse me?"

As always, Harry was loathe to share details about his childhood, but he found to his surprise that it wasn't much harder telling Draco than it had been with Ron and Hermione.

_*Besides, it's over. It doesn't really matter anymore …*_

"My relatives," he mumbled, then swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat and faced the former Slytherin full on. "Even if she had grown up Muggle like me instead of Wizarding, she probably never hadto cook for her whole family at home. And Hermione? She may be Muggleborn, but for all of her brains, the less said about Hermione in a kitchen, the better." Harry grimaced tiredly. "I learned to cook not because my aunt believed it's a useful skill to have. No, she taught me because as soon as I could safely reach the stove and handle a full pot, it became part of my daily chores. I've had to prepare meals for a family of four every day since before I got my Hogwarts letter, as well as when I went back to their house each summer."

Harry cautiously snuck a look at his companion. He couldn't detect _any_ visible reaction at all, either on the lean face or in the pewter-grey eyes. And yet, he didn't get the feeling that he was being judged – or worse, pitied. However much Malfoy's ability to control his emotions and/or his facial expression had irked him before the War, now he was glad he still had it.

"Well," Malfoy said at last, just when the lengthy silence following Harry's revelation threatened to become oppressive. "I suppose we ought to be grateful that your problem is nothing more than bad habits, and not gross incompetence."

The dry statement, confined as it was to Harry's immediate problem, was exactly the right thing to say and break the tension with. Harry's snort of laughter was only slightly hysterical with relief, and he felt surprisingly better for having shared yet another of his secrets.

"Any idea how to rid me of my bad habits, then, oh Mighty Expert?" he asked a little flippantly, looking expectantly at his companion.

Malfoy leaned back in his chair and smirked at Harry. "As a matter of fact, yes."

"Oh? Let's hear it, then." Harry crossed his arms on the work bench. "Because frankly, I can't wait to get my free evenings back … " His voice tapered off when the smirk around the pale lips grew rather alarmingly. "What?"

"I'm afraid there's only one way for you to learn proper brewing techniques – and to _un_learn the cooking." The smirk morphed into a full-out devilish grin that made Harry want to wipe it off _right away_.

_*If I could make up my mind whether I'd rather do it with a punch or a kiss, that is!*_

Quickly, Harry stuffed that particular thought into the 'look-at-later-if-ever' drawer in his mind and forced his unexpectedly constricted vocal chords to work. "And what's that?"

"Brewing, Potter. Brewing, brewing and even more brewing under supervision until you get it right. Without having to think about it. Every. Single. Time." 

With a defeated sigh, Harry slumped in his chair. "I was afraid you'd say that."

"Sorry."

"No, you're not." Green eyes that had dulled with semi-horror at the thought of endless evenings spent bent over a cauldron regained their sparkle at the prospect of … a friendly fight? "I think you're enjoying this!"

"Well … maybe a little," Draco admitted with a laugh and got up. "But look on the bright side, Potter – you get to spend even more evenings in my fascinating company!"

"How about you go fascinate the Giant Squid instead?" Harry grumbled. "Preferably at the deepest point of the lake?"

"Very funny, Potter. Maybe I'll laugh next year." Malfoy's reply was dry as dust.

"I'm trying, thanks," Harry shot back just as dryly. "Seriously, though, can we even get permission to use the classroom for weeks on end for that? How about ingredients? And _what_ would we be brewing, anyway?"

"The hospital wing can always use a bigger supply of basic potions, and it's part of the Potions Master's duties to brew them," Malfoy explained as they made their way towards the Great Hall. For once, they would be in time to share dinner with everybody else at the unified Eighth-Years table. "The school even pays extra if he produces more for stock."

"So what's the use if Slughorn is doing it already?"

Malfoy gave Harry a _'What are you, stupid?'_ look. "Slughorn may not mind getting extra income, but he does hate the amount of work involved – mostly because it's very repetitive and non-challenging. In other words, tedious – and therefore perfect for you to practice."

"Okay, but how can I get him to let me help?" Harry wondered.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Gryffindors," he sighed. "Potter, you're dealing with a Slytherin. _We _are going to make him an offer he won't refuse – a 60/40 split of the proceeds in his favor, say, with access to his stores – and he'll be only too glad to let _us _do the work while he's nibbling on his infernal pineapple chunks."

Harry stared at the taller boy. "Okay, but why would you want to give up so much of your time to go on helping me?" Having a fellow student, even from his own year, appointed as a tutor for someone struggling with a subject wasn't terribly unusual; Malfoy _was _great at Potions, and _had _identified Harry's problem. By all rights, Malfoy's task was done, and it was up to Harry to work out how to bring up his work to the standard needed. That he would voluntarily offer further assistance was … nearly unthinkable.

_*But pretty incredible, too – if he's serious!*_

To Harry's surprise, Malfoy blushed just a little. "Yes, well … while I am not exactly a pauper, a small augmentation of my available assets wouldn't exactly be unwelcome," he murmured diffidently, not looking at Harry as they stopped before the double doors leading into the Great Hall. "The Ministry is … somewhat restrictive in what they deem a sufficient amount of ready cash for my mother and myself to have for the duration of our probationary period."

It took almost a minute for Harry to translate that into plain English. "You need the money? I thought you were rich," he blurted.

The Slytherin grimaced. "My general living expenses, as well as tuition costs and all things school-related are being taken care of, as are my mother's. The rest of the family fortune, however, has been put under Ministry control until further notice. I can petition for extra funds in an emergency, but …" He shrugged nonchalantly, but even Harry could read that it was feigned. "So, if you'd be agreeable to an even split of our share of the profits, I'd be able to do a little more than just window-shop at Hogsmeade. Plus, with Christmas coming soon …"

Harry ruthlessly suppressed any expression of pity he might've felt. He didn't completely disagree with this further sanction the Ministry had laid on the Malfoys, but he thought they might have been a tad more generous than stopping at the bare minimum. Well, there was nothing that he could do about that, but he _could_ help Draco. He would neither appreciate nor accept any overt display of even as much as sympathy, much like Ron didn't like a reminder of his family's often strained finances, Harry knew. So, doing his best to give Draco the courtesy of the same kind of non-reaction as he'd been given earlier, Harry simply nodded and touched Malfoy's shoulder.

"Sounds good to me. Will you make the arrangements?"

Pewter eyes slowly turned to molten silver. "Yes. I'll let you know once we can start."

"Right." With a small smile, Harry turned to where Neville, Hermione and Ron were holding a place for him at the right side of the table the two dozen or so returning Eighth-year students shared, while Malfoy turned left to sit with Zabini and Daphne Greengrass. Before he went out of earshot, though, Harry called out the ex-Slytherin's name. "Oh, and Malfoy?"

The tall, slender boy stopped and looked back over his shoulder. "Yes?"

"Thanks."

The answering smile was small, but lit up the pointy features all the way to the light-coloured eyes. "Ditto to you_,_ Potter."

_TBC …_

8


	4. Chapter 3: Working On A Solution

**Chapter 3: Working On The Solution **

Halloween came and went, and slowly but surely Harry's potions grade began to improve. Malfoy had indeed managed to strike a deal with Professor Slughorn, and the two boys were now meeting two to three times a week to brew potions for Madam Pomfrey, who was suitably grateful.

With only two more weeks to go until Christmas, Professor Slughorn mentioned that he would give them a ten-Galleon bonus each if they would prepare a large cauldron of a rather complicated skin-care lotion, enough for roughly three dozen bottles. The offer was too good to refuse; Malfoy needed the money, Harry needed the practice, so the decision was both quick and easy.

Unfortunately, that wasn't true of the lotion.

"He'll personalize each bottle with scents and stuff like muscle relaxants himself and give them out as Christmas presents," Draco groused as he and Harry hefted a large cast-iron cauldron onto the biggest burner, filled it with purified water and started to stir in several oils and herbs as soon as it went from a low simmer to a full boil. Soon, everything was blended into a smooth emulsion, and they divided the softly-bubbling mass from the large cauldron into several smaller ones, one each for either purely cosmetic or more medicinal usage. "Or at least that's what Blaise told me – seems Sluggy boasted about how 'delighted' his famous students will be with his 'special brew' at last week's Slug Club." He sneered. "Instead, he's making _us _do all the work!"

_*And it __is__ work,* _Harry reflected as he carefully measured out pastilles of yellow beeswax and added them to one cauldron after the other, stirring carefully as they slowly dissolved in the hot liquid. _*If I can't stop stirring soon, my wrist'll get unscrewed!*_

"Maybe we should sabotage _his_ stuff for once," Harry suggested, more than half-seriously. He'd gotten ant secretions on his hands earlier in the day, and the patch of skin was still blistered and swollen and was itchy and hot to the touch.

The boys' eyes met and held. "Don't tempt me," Malfoy murmured, eyeing the supply cabinet speculatively for half a minute. "Unfortunately, it's not worth the trouble; we'd be the only suspects, and get caught for sure."

"Yeah. Pity, though." They grinned at each other, then Malfoy grunted regretfully and concentrated on his brewing once more.

"Talk about being a cheapskate, though – the base costs next to nothing, he's taking more than half the ingredients out of the school's stores anyway, and the only real expense he has are some essential oils and perfumes, plus a few pretty labels!"

"Actually, he has a couple of girls in Ravenclaw write those for him," Harry muttered, straightening for a minute as he kneaded his aching back as best he could. The base emulsion wasn't especially complicated to brew; it just had taken a long time to prepare and add the various medicinal agents, during which both of them had to stay bent over bench and cauldron at an uncomfortable angle.

"How do you know that?" Malfoy asked curiously as he completed the final couple of counter-clockwise stirs and gently withdrew the rod from the still-swirling thickening liquid in his last cauldron.

"Luna's friendly with one of them," Harry explained, unfolding a large square of new cheese cloth and cut it into smaller pieces with his wand. "The poor kid's even proud to do it – thinks it's because Slughorn so admires her calligraphy."

The two young men exchanged a disgusted look as they covered their cauldrons first with the cloth, then fitted lids and cast stasis charms over the lot.

"So he's an especially lazy cheapskate," Malfoy sniffed. "Pathetic! Who gives out homemade presents, anyway?"

Harry took a moment to rein in his temper at the rather snotty remark. "Mrs. Weasley usually knits sweaters for every member of her family, and we always get homemade toffee or brittle from her, too – and it's just as good as anything I've ever bought at Honeydukes,' he replied rather coolly.

Malfoy looked surprised for just an instant, then raised both hands apologetically. "I meant no offense to Mrs. Weasley," he asserted. "I'm quite certain that she puts a lot of thought and effort into each individual item."

If he were being completely honest, Harry wasn't so sure about _that_ – why else would Ron get a maroon sweater each year when he'd declared loudly and often enough how much he _hated _that colour? But he was not about to say so – not to Malfoy, at least.

"Why are you, of all people, suddenly defending Mrs. Weasley?" he asked suspiciously instead.

Malfoy's expression turned rather crafty. "You honestly think I'd insult the woman who took down my dear Aunt Bella with just one curse? Have you _seen _that duel?"

"No. I was sort of busy with something else at the time," Harry said sarcastically, fighting a grin. He'd heard enough accounts of the already-infamous duel later, and he _knew _Molly Weasley.

"Yeah, well, I may not have your Gryffindor courage, but neither am I suicidal," Malfoy huffed while he stuck small pieces of parchment to the bench where they'd stashed the cauldrons, listing the properties of each. "There is no _way _I'd want to get on that lady's bad side!"

"She'll be happy to hear that," Harry laughed. "Anyway, are we done here?"

"Yes. Professor Slughorn will bottle his lotions himself, and we can leave the cauldrons to soak overnight."

"Great. Dinner?"

"Please."

Just as the two young men were about to enter the Great Hall, a tall, good-looking boy wearing a Ravenclaw crest on his robes intercepted them and asked Harry if he could have a word in private, please.

"Uh, sure," Harry shrugged and waved Malfoy ahead, who nodded and sat down in his usual place.

"Where's Harry?" Ron Weasley asked him, much less aggressively than at the beginning of the school year. He still wasn't overly fond of Slytherins in general, or Malfoy in particular, but both Harry and Hermione had reported repeatedly that their former arch-rivals were polite and not out to make trouble for anyone. Furthermore, Ron _was_ aware that his new relationship with Hermione was leaving Harry slightly on the outside; he was not about to blame his best mate for searching company elsewhere.

He just wished said company were anybody else but Ferret Malfoy.

Malfoy gave him a tight smile as he cut himself a wedge of steaming pie and reached for a serving bowl filled with mixed vegetables. "That new Ravenclaw chaser wanted to speak with him."

"What, Mortens? What does _he _want from Harry?"

Draco successfully fought down the sneer he could feel forming on his face. He wasn't oblivious to the gradual changes developing in his relationship with Potter, and whatever state of affairs between them those changes ultimately led to, it was a certainty that it would include Potter's best friends. Since Draco had no intention of ditching Potter anytime soon now that he finally had him where he'd wanted him since they were both eleven, that meant he'd have to at least tolerate the other two-thirds of the Gryffindor trio. He was a Malfoy; he could do this!

So he replied politely enough. "I wouldn't know; Mortens requested privacy, which Potter granted."

"That's never stopped you before from trying to-" Ron started heatedly, but was interrupted by Harry's arrival at the table. He sat down rather abruptly next to Hermione, his face a study in perplexity.

"Harry? What's wrong?" the brunette witch asked solicitously.

"Yeah, you look as if Malfoy here had managed to beat you to the Snitch for once," Ron added, with a sly look at the young man in question. Draco had just closed his lips around a largish bite of piping-hot steak pie, and was far too well-bred to speak with his mouth full. Luckily, there were ways around good manners if necessary. Malfoy simply shifted his knife to stick up vertically between the second and third finger of his right hand, thus mimicking a one-fingered gesture that was neitherpermitted by the International Quidditch League Rules manual, nor by _A Young Wizard's and Witch's Guide to Proper Etiquette_.

There was a moment's silence, then the boys sitting next to them started to guffaw. From there, the barely-suppressed laughter quickly spread around the whole table as more and more of their fellow eighth-years were made aware of the situation. Ron's ears reddened alarmingly, both from embarrassment and chagrin, but when it became apparent that this was _all _the reaction he'd get from Malfoy at the moment, he reluctantly allowed a grin to spread over his face. "Up yours, too, Ferret!"

Instead of making a snotty remark, Malfoy chewed and swallowed his mouthful of meat and pastry, calmly returned his knife to its proper position and started buttering half a roll.

"Quite. Ditto."

"Boys," Hermione sighed, sharing exasperated eyerolls with every female at the table – even the Slytherins. "Behave, why don't you?"

"Aww, do we have to?" Finnegan whinged, but was soon shushed by a quelling glance from both Daphne Greengrass and Hannah Abbott. He pouted and turned back to his own dinner.

The byplay, short as it was, had been enough to tear Harry out of his daze. He shook himself and reached blindly for a goblet of juice, which Millicent Bulstrode obligingly sent across the table into his hand with a smooth levitation spell.

"Thanks," Harry sighed. He gulped the contents down, refilled the goblet from the nearest pitcher and distractedly began to eat the piece of chicken Hermione had solicitously deposited on his plate. However, when he was just about to spear a floret of broccoli covered in Hollandaise she'd also served him, a light punch from Ron to his upper arm recalled him to the here and now.

"Oi, don't eat that, mate; Hermione's being sneaky again. You hate broccoli, remember?"

"Huh? Oh yeah." With a frown, Harry pushed the offending vegetable back onto an empty platter, looked around for things more to his liking and began to eat after taking a portion of carrots and peas instead. Hermione pouted at first when her choice of vegetable was so summarily rebuffed, but when she noticed that the others were bursting with curiosity the fierce glare in her eyes stopped everyone from bothering Harry while he ate. So it was only when his immediate hunger seemed halfway satisfied she took it upon herself to question him.

"Now, Harry … what _did _Mortens say to you that had you so upset?"

Harry finished his third glass of pumpkin juice and cut himself a piece of cherry cheesecake for dessert.

"I'm not … upset, really," he said slowly, unconsciously mangling his cake after only a coule of bites as he gathered his thoughts. Finally he simply gave up on the sweet, pushed his plate away and raked his fingers through his hair. "I just never expected that, not in a million years."

"Expected what, Harry?" A corner of Neville's mouth quirked in a knowing smile that was echoed by several others around the table. Mortens had been at Hogwarts during the last year, and was thus well-known to most of the upper years. As were his … preferences.

The wide look in Harry's green eyes was just a little bit helpless.

"I think I've been propositioned," he murmured, blushing all the way down to his collarbone. "By a bloke."

xXxo0oxXx

"Did it bother you that Mortens asked you out?" Hermione asked later in the Common Room.

Harry slouched deeper into the squashy armchair next to the two-seater she was sharing with Ron. "What, because he's a bloke? Or because he approached me in the first place?"

"Both, really," she said. "More the first, though."

"Well, I was certainly surprised, to put it mildly," Harry replied slowly. At least nobody had made any derogatory comments, although they'd all laughed at his obvious bewilderment. "After all, I don't even _know_ the kid." He slanted a glance at her. "But to be honest, I also felt just a little … well, flattered, I guess. For once I didn't get the feeling that the bloke was only out to date Harry _Potter_, but wanted to be with just plain _Harry_."

"And that's important to you."

"You know it is," Harry said, feeling vaguely grateful to hear that she knew him well enough to make it a statement rather than a question. "Why'd you ask?"

Hermione looked just a tad sheepish. "I just thought … given that your relatives set so much store in 'normalcy'," she said with clearly audible air quotes, "I, um, thought that you might have inadvertently picked up at least _some _of their prejudices. You know as well as I do that some Muggles can have major reservations about same-sex relationships – and no offense, but the Dursleys strike me as the sort who would fall into that category."

Harry smiled at her rather tactful approach. "None taken, and you're definitely right about them and their attitude." He then drew a deep breath. He hadn't known how to tell his two best friends that he was at least growing curious about possibly expanding his sexual horizons (only just not about random brunet Ravenclaws), and this opportunity to clue his friends in to his (possibly? Probably?) changed orientation was too good to pass up.

"Well, for the record, I haven't made _any _of the Dursleys' prejudices my own," he stated flatly. "Quite the contrary, in fact."

"Good for you," Hermione murmured approvingly.

Harry spared her a fleeting grin, swallowed the sudden lump of anxiety in his throat and plunged on. "Anyway, Mortens caught me by surprise. But now that I'm over the first shock … if I'm ever asked again, I, erm, might even be tempted to, ah, take them up on it."

Hermione's eyes widened as the meaning of Harry's declaration sank in. She blushed a little, but her fond gaze never wavered. Harry mentally heaved a huge sigh of relief and pumped his fist. _*YES! She'll still be my friend!*_

"Would you really?" Hermione asked softly.

Harry squarely met her brown eyes. "Only if I also happened to _like_ the guy."

"Oh? Like, if he were … a friend?"

He chuckled, sagging back into the cushions with relief. "Something like that, yes. Which does _not _mean I'm going to make a move on Ron or Neville – and as for anybody else, you can stop digging right now." He grinned at his best friend's pout. "Seriously, Hermione, forget it. That's _all_ I'm going to say on this!"

"Say on what?" Ron piped up, finally tearing his attention away from the chess match Malfoy was having with Zabini across from the fireplace.

"On whether Harry would be willing to go out with another boy, provided they are friends first," Hermione replied matter-of-factly, sending a wink in Harry's direction.

"Uh huh, that's nice …" Ron was pouring tea into a mug from the pot the eighth-years had going every evening, then carefully measured out honey and milk. He gave no sign that he'd truly heard, much less understood the dungbomb that had just been dropped into his lap. Hermione bit on her lips to stop herself from giggling as she waited for her boyfriend's brain to catch up with what she'd just said, and Harry's eyes were beginning to sparkle with suppressed laughter now that his alarm at her rather cavalier announcement was wearing off. After all, if he couldn't trust Herione's judgment on the comedic potential of Ron's reaction … silently, he started to tick off seconds on his fingers.

_*Six … seven … eight … ni-*_

The lanky form stiffened, the red head whipped around, and the tea sloshed out of the mug onto the floor as Ron stared open-mouthed at his best mate.

_"Wait, what?" _

Amusedly, Harry pointed his wand at the spreading tea puddle and Vanished the spillage with a wordless spell.

"What 'what', Ron?" he asked mildly.

"Harry … mate …" Ron's voice no longer squeaked, but had grown hoarse with incredulity. "A-are you saying y-you're gay?"

Harry shrugged, with a nonchalance he didn't truly feel. "Maybe. I've never played on that side of the Quidditch pitch, so I don't rightly know. Yet." Mentally, he was crossing his fingers that Ron would be as sanguine about it as Hermione.

Ron gulped. "B-but do you w-want to?"

_*Well, at least he hasn't exploded yet. That's usually a good sign …*_

"I might," Harry said softly yet firmly. "If I ever meet someone I like and trust enough to experiment with. He'd have to be a very good friend first, certainly not some strange kid with a crush who's younger than me."

"A f-friend?" Ron's voice was sliding into the upper registers again, his blue eyes widened and every single freckle on his cheeks was standing out for a few seconds until Harry realized why. He nearly choked on a sudden laugh.

"Ron, as I just told Hermione, pretty much the _last _thing I'd want to do is jump your bones! Not for _that_, anyway; all bets are off if you're being a pillock again," Harry grinned. "No offense, mate, but you're _really _not my type!"

"Whew." The colour was slowly returning to Ron's face, and a reluctant smile crept forwards. "Now that's a relief."

The friends shared a grin, then Harry sobered slightly. "You … you're okay with this, though? I mean, if it turns out I really am gay?"

"You might be bisexual, Harry," Hermione interjected softly. "It doesn't necessarily have to be either-or. For now, I'd say you're bi-curious at least."

"Do I have to have a label?" Harry frowned, but was interrupted by his best mate's hand gripping his knee firmly.

"I don't care if you end up shagging birds, blokes or both in the end, mate," Ron said firmly. You'll still be _you_, we're best friends, and that's all that matters."

His cheeks would hurt from the width of the smile spreading them, Harry was sure. "Thanks, Ron. You, too, Hermione."

She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "You're very welcome, Harry."

Ron remembered his tea and took a deep draught before sliding his arm around Hermione's waist, drawing her against his side. "Just one thing, mate," he murmured at Harry, suddenly serious. "I know it's none of my business and I don't want to butt in, but … what about Ginny? Have you told _her_ yet that you might feel that way?"

"I wanted to tell the two of you first," Harry said soberly. "And I promise, I'll talk to her at the first opportunity. Whether I'll ever indulge my curiosity or not, whether it's now or later, she has a right to know and decide whether she wants to be with me under the circumstances."

"Just as long as you don't hurt her," Ron warned.

"I may not be able to completely avoid that," Harry sighed. "But I give you my word I'll try to keep it to the absolute minimum."

Ron gave him his hard, older-brother look, then sighed. "Good enough, I suppose."

"Good luck, Harry," Hermione added in a low whisper, unconsciously snuggling closer against her boyfriend.

"Thanks," Harry smiled and relaxed into the back of his chair, glad to know that both of his best friends would stay at his side, even through this. Ron hadn't blown his stack, Hermione was as supportive as ever … wherever this new journey would take him, no matter that he'd have to walk it alone, their friendship would endure.

_*Now if I only knew whether I'm curious about __all__ guys, or just Malfoy …*_

xXxo0oxXx

From across the fire, Draco watched the trio, wondering which topic had the Weasel so flabbergasted while simultaneously amusing Granger and – at least temporarily – alarming Potter. He briefly considered that it might have been the Ravenclaw boy's proposition, and if it was what possible interpretation he might put on the various reactions. An old, old thought (and hope) rose cautiously from the deepest part of his mind, but with the ease of long practice Draco chased it back to where he'd buried it _at least _two years ago.

_*He's the Hero, and I … I used to be a Death Eater. Not a very good, or even successful one, maybe, but that damned tattoo Father all but forced me to accept is a barrier even Potter won't dare to tear down.* _Once again, he admonished himself to be content with what he _could_ reasonably expect – an at least amiable relationship, and friendship at best.

_*Which is more than I've ever had, and __definitely__ more than I dared hope, after all the crap we put each other – no, let's be honest for once, which I and my family, put him through before.*_

Completing his education and leaving Hogwarts as Harry Potter's friend should be enough for anyone, even a Malfoy. With a tiny sigh, Draco returned his attention to Blaise and the chessboard between them. As he made his next move, only he knew that a deeply-buried part of him still wished things could be different.

_*If I only could stop being curious about what it would be like, me and Potter …*_

xxXo0oXxx

It was the last Hogsmeade weekend before Christmas break, and as every year most Hogwarts students were swarming the village to do their last-minute shopping. Harry had put in owl orders a few days earlier and was looking forward to an early lunch and warm butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks when he came across a rather glum-looking blond.

"Hey, Malfoy."

"Potter."

"Want to join me for a drink?" Harry suggested spontaneously, and was pleased to see the grey eyes light up. Too soon, however, they returned to a dull pewter colour.

"Thank you for the offer, but …" Malfoy swallowed as his cheeks pinked from something other than the cold. "I have to choose carefully to be able to buy a present for my mother at least; I cannot possible afford that and … more," he finally admitted in a voice tight with what Harry belatedly realized was embarrassment.

"My treat," Harry said after a moment's pause, raising his hand to stave off Malfoy's incipient protest. "Call it a favour returned for coaching me in Potions," he added lightly. "Come on, I'd really like the company."

"And you want me to believe that's all?" Malfoy muttered, but did fall in with Harry as he turned to walk towards the popular pub.

Harry shrugged. "Well … if you must know, I also could use some moral support once Ron and Hermione are done with their shopping. I mean, I'm happy they're happy, but …"

"The lovey-dovey bickering getting a bit much?" Malfoy sniggered.

"You have _no_ idea," Harry sighed. He was glad to see that Madam Rosmerta was not about to deny Malfoy entrance, but he couldn't really fault her for being noticeably cool towards his companion. He knew Malfoy had sent her a formal apology which had been accepted (along with a sizeable contribution of rare wines and spirits from the Manor's vaults), but that didn't mean all the justified resentment was forgiven and forgotten. For now, Malfoy claimed he could live with the chilly, somewhat perfunctory service that not even Harry's company was able to dispel entirely.

Once their drinks were bought, they sought out a back table where they had a good view of the entrance so they wouldn't miss any friends walking in, yet couldn't be overheard by younger students and other patrons.

"So what did you find for your mother?" Harry inquired curiously. The only present he was still stumped over was one for Andromeda Tonks; he just didn't know her well enough yet, and he was planning to sift through the owl-order catalogues again later that night.

_*Or maybe Malfoy has a suggestion; after all, she __is__ his aunt, even if the sisters are estranged.*_

"Unfortunately, nothing I can readily afford," the other young man sighed. "You are aware of my somewhat limited resources, and all the things I used to give her are now well out of my means."

Harry knew pretty much to the knut how much money Malfoy had, as they'd scrupulously split their earnings from brewing for Professor Slughorn. His first impulse was to offer his share to Draco, but curbed it almost immediately – Malfoy would no more take charity than Ron, no matter how well Harry could afford to be generous. They sat and sipped their drinks, both lost in thought, until Harry remembered the conversation about presents they'd had some days ago.

"Can't you make something for her yourself?"

Malfoy's expression assumed almost all of the old haughtiness. "I'm a bit past the age where my mother would coo over any kind of crafts project," he sneered. "Honestly, Potter, are you daft? I still have _some_ standards, you know!"

"Yeah, whatever," Harry waved off the open disdain. "I'm not thinking kids' stuff, but more along the lines of what Slughorn had us do," he explained, warming to his idea. _*That might just be thing for Andromeda, too!*_

"What, a common lotion laced with cheap garden-variety herbs or scented with even cheaper floral essences and packaged in a tacky bottle? Not bloody likely!"

"No, listen," Harry insisted, his mind churning with sudden possibilities. "I need one more gift for –" he hesitated briefly, then found the right words, "—a lady of similar age to your mother myself, and something like that would be just the right degree of being both personal and not too familiar. If we bought really good-quality ingredients here and put it into really pretty bottles, then split both the expenses and the brewing … wouldn't that work?"

Malfoy's posture gradually lost its rigidity as he considered the suggestion, his obvious reluctance waning the longer he did so. "I just might have enough funds to buy a small vial of Mother's favourite perfume over my share of the ingredients," he said slowly. "But I would only have slightly less than two Galleons left. No way is that enough for a suitable container." He shook his head. "I'm sorry, Potter; for a moment there I thought you had something. I'd rather have no gift except a small box of chocolates than something ugly and cheap."

Harry grinned. "You won't have to," he said confidently. "Are you aware that the exchange rate of the Galleon towards Muggle currency is one to five?"

"No. In what way is that relevant?"

The grin grew wider. "There's a Muggle town called Thurso not too far away from here, maybe twenty-five kilometres or so," Harry said, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Only a short Apparition away, and I'm sure we can find something suitable there."

Malfoy shook his head. "You're overlooking several points. One, I don't have any Muggle money."

"I do; you can pay me back in Galleons later." That only earned him an irritated scowl.

"Two, I'm not allowed to Apparate without getting prior permission from the Headmistress."

"Oh." Harry frowned briefly. "Well, in that case … I'll go by myself. I promise to buy something nice."

"Which leads me directly to my third, and most salient point," Malfoy went on with nary a pause. "No offense, Potter; I might trust you to purchase adequate _Muggle_ merchandise, but such an item would hardly be of more than novelty value to my mother, and her taste is such that-"

"Are you a wizard, or not?" Harry interrupted Malfoy, a challenging smirk on his lips. _*Now I know how Ron felt when he was able to throw that back at Hermione!* _"Remember Gamp's Laws of Elemental Transfiguration? It's always easiest to Transfigure items if the basic shape, material and function are at least similar."

"Yes; so?"

"I _know_ I can find suitable flagons in either ceramic or glass, at a price you can afford," Harry said simply. He grinned when he saw the Knut drop at last.

"We could Transfigure them into fine china or crystal," Malfoy breathed, sudden excitement bringing colour to his cheeks. "Potter, that … that actually isn't a completely bad idea!"

Virtuously, Harry refrained from saying 'I told you so' and checked his watch instead. "We have two hours until we need to go back to the castle; d'you think you can get the ingredients from the apothecary in that time while I'm gone?"

He received a patented Malfoy 'What do you take me for' stare. "Certainly."

"Great." Quickly, Harry counted out twenty Galleons and pushed them towards Malfoy. "Get a nice scent for me, too, will you?"

Malfoy pursed his lips. "Oh, very well. A lady my mother's age, you say?"

Harry nodded. "Give or take a few years. Similar background, too." He could see the spark of curiosity in the grey eyes, but he just wasn't ready yet to divulge his connection to the other boy's aunt yet. Lucky for him, Malfoy was too well-mannered to ask.

_*Not that that has stopped him before!* _But apparently, their budding friendship meant that Malfoy would extend good manners even to his former arch-rival, Harry noted gladly.

"In that case, I shall do my best."

"So will I – meet you back here at four-thirty?"

"Yes."

The two young men parted company, each with a specific purpose and destination in mind. And as Harry prepared to Apparate, he realized with a start that for the first time since his first-ever visit to Honeydukes, or maybe even the time Hagrid took him to Diagon Alley on his eleventh birthday, he was actually looking forward to a shopping expedition.

_*Does that make me gay now, or not?*_

With a shrug, Harry decided that at least for today he couldn't care less, fixed the coordinates for Thurso (which he'd found on a map posted at the Hogsmeade railway station) firmly in his mind, spun on his heel and Disapparated with a near-silent 'crack'.

_TBC ..._


	5. Chapter 4: Facing the Crisis

_**Chapter **__**4: **__**Facing **__**the **__**Crisis**_

"I'm curious, Potter; have you taken that Ravenclaw up on his offer yet?" Malfoy enquired casually during their last meeting before Christmas break. Harry had bought several very pretty glass flagons sporting a classic waffle cut that met even Malfoy's exacting standards. They'd asked Hermione for assistance with Transfiguring the glass into sparkling lead crystal, and Tracey Davies had helped carve the semi-precious stones Harry had found in passing at a stall in the Thurso Yule Market into multi-faceted stoppers. The brewing had taken up one evening, Draco had chosen a subtle fragrance of an Ylang-Ylang/jasmine mix that Harry hoped Andromeda would like as much as he did, and now they were in the process of packing the flagons in padded cardboard boxes. Just like the brewing, they shared the wrapping – folding the Christmas paper as neatly as possible was up to Harry, and tying each box up with an elaborate bow and a sprig of holly was done with artistic flair by Draco.

Harry looked up from where he was spello-taping the cream-on-cream-patterned wrapping paper to his box so that Draco could affix the dusky-pink iridescent ribbon Harry had chosen for his Godson's grandmother. Truth be told, he'd all but forgotten about Mortens. What was more, given the fact that any attraction he possibly _might_ be feeling towards another male was by now firmly directed at his brewing partner, Malfoy was pretty much the _last_ person at Hogwarts he wanted to discuss the younger boy's proposition with.

"Actually, no," he replied, keeping his voice calm with some effort.

"Why not? He's attractive enough – if you go for the rugged country-boy look, that is."

Harry shrugged, lowering his head to his task to hide his incipient blush. "I suppose, but I'd need more than good looks in a bloke to take him to bed."

His offhand dismissal earned him a raised eyebrow – the sixteenth of the day. Not that Harry was keeping score, or anything. "Oh? What else would you be looking for in a bed partner, then? Assuming we _are_still talking about a male," Malfoy added with a sly wink.

Another shrug. "Honestly? Gender wouldn't matter; the same rules apply for me whether we're talking about a girl _or_a boy." Harry met the wicked grey eyes with a cool green stare of his own. "Do you have a problem with that?"

"Not me," Malfoy said slowly, as if deliberating what kind of answer _exactly_ he was going to give. "I … have found myself to be rather an equal-opportunity person lately as well," he murmured at last, looking at Harry from under half-lowered lids. Harry smiled slightly, acknowledging the barely-hidden message.

"That's … good to know," he murmured, hoping the suddenly-frantic hammering of his pulse wasn't visible across their workspace. Could it be that Malfoy shared in the yet largely unacknowledged attraction that was ensnaring Harry more and more with each passing day?

_*Merlin,__I__hope__so,*_Harry mused, concentrating once more on his wrapping. _*And__if__he__does__ … __what__am__I__going__to__do__about__it?__Am__I__doing__something__about__it?*_ Talking about sex, even in such a roundabout fashion, surprisingly was easier with Malfoy than it had ever been with Ron, or Neville. _*On__second__thought,__Malfoy's__less__uptight__than__Nev__used__to__be,__and__I__never__wanted__to__date__his__younger__sister.__Or__he__my__best__female__friend.__So__ – __small__wonder,__really.*_ Deciding that he'd find an answer to that question over the holidays, Harry let his smile grow and tapped deliberately into his Slytherin side. "Maybe we could … pursue … this further after the New Year?" he suggested slyly, hoping that he wouldn't give too much away if his breath decided to hitch despite his best efforts.

A tiny smile that mirrored his own formed on the pale face and deepened even as Harry watched, mesmerized. "My, you're certainly full of surprises, Potter."

"More than you would know. Are you going to answer me?"

Malfoy laughed softly and shook his head. "Merlin, do you even _know_the meaning of 'subtle'?"

Suddenly, Gryffindor bluntness won out over Slytherin guile. "Whatever._Is_ that a yes?"

The slight smile turned into a crafty smirk. "Possibly. Ask me again come January."

"I will," Harry vowed, holding out the festively-wrapped box. With a flourish of his wand, Malfoy tied the ribbon, stashed the parcel next to the others and moved around the table. He raised a hand as if to touch Harry, but stopped himself at the last moment.

"No, not now," he whispered huskily, sending shivers down Harry's spine that threatened to wander around to his front and pool in a most inconvenient yet not unwelcome place. "January. Don't forget."

A second later, he was gone, his own silver-and-pale blue box tucked safely into the crook of his arm. Harry was left standing with the remaining gift box, more than slightly dazed.

_*Trust__me,__I__won't,*_ he swore to himself. Then he shook himself once before his favourite daydream could take hold … and started to swear in an entirely different way and for quite another reason.

"Malfoy, you prick! You _had_ to go and leave me with all the junk!"

Grumbling and chuckling and cursing and sighing, Harry drew his wand and began to clean.

xXxo0oxXx

Twelfth Night saw them all back at Hogwarts. Harry had spent the first part of Christmas break at the Burrow, mainly for Molly's sake, and it had been a painful yet soothing period for everybody when grief over Fred's death was slowly being put aside by joy over Teddy Lupin's antics and the announcement of Fleur's pregnancy.

He also had a long, and painful, talk with Ginny once the holidays were over. Explaining about his (by now pretty much established) bisexual leanings hadn't been easy, but he'd tried his best to reassure Ginny that no fault lay with her; rather, that it was a facet of his personality he hadn't had reason or inclination to explore and/or acknowledge until now, when he was finally free to live his life the way he wanted.

"Is there someone else?" Ginny asked tersely once he'd stumbled all the way through his confession. Her freckles stood out sharply on pale cheeks, and her usually warm brown eyes glittered hard with hurt.

"No," Harry replied, but he'd either hesitated a second too long, or something in his eyes or voice had given him away.

"Don't lie to me, Harry!" Ginny exclaimed angrily.

He sighed. "I'm not. There really isn't anybody else, but … there might be."

"Who?"

He knew better than to give a name. "I can't tell you." Seeing that that wasn't enough, he decided he owed her as much of the truth as he felt comfortable with. "No, really. Nothing's happened yet, but something _might_, and I don't want to tell anyone who he is until we've come to a decision either way, so …"

Ginny was breathing in short, heavy gasps. "So it _is_a 'he'?"

Wearily, Harry closed his eyes. _*Damn.__I__hadn't__meant__to__give__that__much__away.*_ "Yes. And even if nothing ever comes of … whatever there is between me and him … you have the right to know that I _can_ swing that way. I may not ever _do_ something about it, but …" He swallowed. "The decision is yours, Gin. Can you live with how and what I am, or would you prefer to – "

She'd slapped him then and stormed off to her room, angry tears streaming down her face. Harry's cheek was still smarting with the imprint of Ginny's hand when Ron eventually sought him out at the fence bordering the Weasleys' property.

"I guess Gin didn't take things very well," Ron mumbled, shuffling his feet in the frost-tipped grass.

"You could say that," Harry confirmed, absently rubbing his cheek.

Ron suppressed an involuntary smile; he was quite familiar with his baby sister's temper and the expressions thereof. "Can you blame her?"

"Not really," Harry sighed. "I wish I could've told her what she wanted to hear, but …"

"Mate, she _wanted_ to hear you ask to marry her as soon as you both are finished with school come summer," Ron scoffed. "And whether you ever want to try it on with a bloke or not, even_I_ couldn't see _that_ happen anytime soon!"

"What? No!" Harry blurted, shocked. "Merlin, I'm only eighteen and have just come out of a bloody war; there's _no__way_ I'd be ready for marriage – or worse, kids! With anyone! Not that I might not want to have a family later, but …"

"I hear you, mate. Makes me very glad that Hermione is in no hurry, either."

The two young men shared a grin. Their friend was already full of plans, about her parents, whether there was any kind of post-school Wizarding education or, failing that, the kind of career and/or apprenticeship she might choose. No, the brightest witch of their generation very definitely was _NOT_about to settle down in marriage and family in the foreseeable future, and woe to anyone who tried to change her mind!

The moment of levity passed all too soon for Harry, though, as he recalled Ginny's suspiciously reddened eyes and downcast manner over dinner.

"I'd just hoped I wouldn't have to hurt her quite that much …"

Ron sighed and clapped him on the shoulder. "I know. 's not your fault, mate. Come on, Bill brought a bottle of Ogden's over that needs killing. Or so he claims."

Harry gladly went along. Replaying the scene with Ginny in his mind later, though, Harry thought that a goodly part of Ginny's reaction had been due to hurt pride rather than a broken heart. At least that's what he was able to piece together from her extremely loud and angry rant. He was the first to admit that he was no expert on girls in general and their feelings in particular, but surely a truly devastated girl wouldn't have resorted to name-calling and slapping?

With a mental shrug, he put it behind him and moved back to his rented rooms in London the next day to spend the rest of Christmas break away from the Weasley women's reproachful eyes. He used the time to take a long-overdue, in-depth look at Grimmauld Place. It had been painful to be confronted with memories of Sirius at nearly every turn, but Harry had decided that he could honor his late Godfather best by what amounted to playing a final prank on Sirius' family. He therefore would turn the house from a virtual mausoleum to the Dark Arts into a proper _home_ for himself, if possible – after some much-needed, _extensive_renovations, of course. He'd even applied to Bill Weasley for help; there was still too much Dark magic hidden in the very walls, and it was best to leave _that_ kind of cleansing to a professional.

Eventually Harry was glad to find that, on the train back to Hogwarts, Ron was his usual friendly self, Hermione and Neville were quietly sympathetic … and Ginny kept to her own yearmates rather than spend the ride with her brother and his friends.

xXx0o0xXx

School started again on Monday, January 5; the next night, almost everybody was delighted over the special surprise the Headmistress had arranged for Twelfth Night. Rather than having a selection of two or three desserts appear directly on the tables, she'd ordered the Hogwarts house-elves to set up a buffet where everyone could help themselves to however much of whatever they liked best.

Not surprisingly, overeating ran rampant – as did various degrees of stomachache and diarrhea the day after. Thus, nobody was surprised when two younger students, a Third-year Gryffindor and a First-year Hufflepuff, were missing in class on Wednesday. It was just tacitly assumed that they were spending an extra day in Madam Pomfrey's care.

As the week progressed and the kids didn't rejoin their classmates, though, and a few others in their dorms fell ill, too, it slowly filtered down to the rest of the student body that this was more than just a double case of too much sweets or maybe a hitherto-unrecognized food allergy. In fact, by the weekend it was clear that all currently sick children had contracted dragon pox and were kept in isolation in the Infirmary.

"The poor dears," sighed Hannah Abbott when the diagnosis was related to all by Professor Sprout on Sunday. "Not only are they in for at least two weeks of misery, they'll also be green all over when it's over."

"What do you mean, 'green all over'?" Justin frowned.

"Just that, Finch-Fletchley," Malfoy said between bites of muffin slathered with boysenberry jam. "The disease isn't called dragon pox for nothing – if they survive, they'll have pockmarks and green skin from top to toe. Not quite as vivid as a Welsh Green's hide, but close."

"_If_ they survive?" There were several gasps around the table, and the ex-Slytherin nodded, for once without a trace of mockery.

"My grandfather Abraxas died of dragon pox," he said somberly. "I was too small to remember him well, but I know my grandmother spent weeks nursing him, to no avail." Malfoy drew a deep breath, clearly gathering himself. "Anyway, a cure's been available since 1600 or so, but dragon pox is still one of the most dangerous Wizarding diseases because it can mutate so easily."

"Is it contagious?"

"Like you wouldn't believe," Ron said. "Mind, there's little danger if you're taking proper precautions, but …" He shrugged.

"I've read up on the disease over lunch," Hermione divulged. The situation was too serious for even Ron and Harry to roll their eyes at her predictability, and for once they listened carefully to the information she'd gathered and was preparing to share right now. "Luckily, the virus isn't airborne, but even the briefest contact with a pustule, or the secretions, is enough to infect somebody else. And it can linger for hours on any number of surfaces that a carrier has touched unknowingly."

"Sounds pretty bad," Harry murmured.

"It is," Hermione sighed. "Dragon pox is one of _the_most virulent diseases known to man – both Wizarding and Muggle."

"Are we in any danger, you think?" Millicent wanted to know, her broad face pulled into an unhappy frown.

To everyone's surprise, it was Malfoy who answered. "It'd be stupid to say no; as Granger just explained, dragon pox can spread incredibly fast and can well be deadly. But Weasley's also right – as long as everybody is extra careful and follows protocol, nobody need die." He smiled fleetingly. "After all, my grandfather was ill for close to a month, and neither anybody else in my family nor any of the house-elves got infected."

The reassurance, small as it was, helped calm any immediate fears among the students, but it was still a very sombre group who went back to their Common Room after dinner.

xXxo0oxXx

At breakfast on Monday morning, Hermione caught her copy of the _Daily__Prophet_ before the delivery owl could drop it into Neville's porridge. She absently smoothed it open with her left hand while she stirred lemon juice into her tea with her right, but when she finally turned to read the headline, she gasped loudly enough to catch everybody's attention.

"Oh my!"

Tea forgotten, she grabbed the newspaper with both hands and scanned the lead article as fast as she could.

"Hermione? What's wrong?" Harry asked with a frown; normally, that kind of reaction in Hermione meant that Rita Skeeter had once again let her Quick-Quotes Quill loose on him or his friends.

_*Although__I__can't__remember__a__single__thing__that's__happened__recently__in__which__Rita__might__even__be__remotely__interested__ …__*_

"It's about the dragon pox," Hermione summarized, her voice full of concern. "There's been a big outbreak on Clacton Island, in Essex – and apparently it's one of the mutated strains Malfoy mentioned yesterday. The article says it's spreading five times faster than normal, and is all but resistant to the cure developed by Gunhilda of Gorsemoor!"

"Oh Merlin," Hannah moaned. "Isabel, the Firstie, is from Essex!"

"So's Pomeroy," Neville said grimly, referring to the Gryffindor boy. "This is bad."

"How so?" Dean wanted to know. "I mean, they've been in isolation since Wednesday …"

"Unfortunately, dragon pox can be contagious up to five days before the symptoms manifest clearly," Malfoy murmured, having snatched the paper from Hermione and skimmed over the article himself. "It's a small miracle that we haven't had even more cases in the Infirmary yet."

Ernie Macmillan blanched. "Merlin, they might have already infected their dorm mates, people in their Common Rooms …"

"… and everybody they came in contact with on the Hogwarts Express," Hermione finished, her voice weak with shock. "You know how much of a push and shove it always is to get off the train at Hogsmeade!"

Ron's freckles stood out starkly against his gone-pale cheeks. "When I think of how I was kind of hacked off that we couldn't stay up in Gryffindor Tower …"

"And now you're just as glad as the rest of us that our year is _not_ sharing space with the infectious people, Weasley," Malfoy said harshly, drowning out Hermione's protest.

"Really, Ron, how insensitive …"

"Come off it, Granger," Zabini sighed, pushing his plate with a half-eaten slice of toast to the side, appetite lost. "I commend you for your compassion, but Malfoy's right – we should be thankful that all of us have had very little contact with our former Houses."

"Slytherin hasn't been infected yet," Ron muttered, but Daphne Greengrass only sighed.

"Weasley, the kids currently up in the Infirmary are Gryffindor and Hufflepuff. Who, if you'll remember, routinely share classes with Slytherin and Ravenclaw respectively. Which means that it's almost inevitable that we'll have sick students from _every_ house within the next few days."

As if to prove her point, a third-year Slytherin suddenly slumped off the bench at her table, collapsing into unconsciousness before an older student or a teacher could reach her. There were a few shrieks around the Great Hall and a general, hasty scrambling-away from those nearest, but Professor McGonagall stopped the incipient panic with a quickly-cast _Sonorus_.

"Prefects, gather the students and go back to your Common Rooms; Professors Sprout and Slughorn, as well as Madam Pomfrey, will be by soon to determine who else might have been infected. Please avoid physical contact with each other as much as possible. Classes are suspended until further notice." There were a few isolated cheers from students who hadn't added up all the clues yet, quickly shushed by wiser minds. The stern witch smiled grimly and drew a deep breath. "Eighth-year students, please stay behind. Thank you."

Within less than fifteen minutes, the Great Hall was empty; even all the teachers had left for their offices or to look after their Houses. Minerva McGonagall watched the last of them leave, then made her way from the head table towards the two dozen or so senior students who were huddled around their table at the back.

"I had hoped to start this year on a happier note," she sighed as she surveyed them and absently declined the offer of a cup of tea from Neville. "As all of you are adults, it is my duty to inform you that you may leave Hogwarts at any time – provided a certified Healer or Mediwitch issues you a writ that you are not contagious," she stated stiffly.

The group exchanged swift glances. While there were a few dubious looks, nobody protested when Neville spoke for them all.

"We'll stay."

The Headmistress permitted herself a small, tight smile. "Thank you, Mr. Longbottom. I don't need to tell you to take all necessary precautions to prevent infection, do I?"

"My parents are both medical professionals; I can instruct everyone on basic antiseptic procedures," Hermione said quietly. "Is there anything we can do to help, Headmistress?"

The faded eyes behind square glasses lifted up to hers in slight surprise. "That is a very kind offer, Miss Granger, but I will not endanger any one of you more than is absolutely unavoidable," she said. "We've already lost so many of your year …" The Headmistress's gaze grew distant for a few seconds before she rallied and continued in a much steadier tone. "Be that as it may, I would not refuse your help to keep order among the younger years a few days from now, when most of the staff will be occupied with the current crisis."

"Is it the Essex strain the paper mentioned, then?" Michael Corner asked.

"It certainly looks that way," McGonagall sighed. "Which unfortunately means that, unless we're _very_ lucky, we'll have an epidemic on our hands by the end of this week. I've Flooed St. Mungo's, and the Healers there have left me little hope that we'll be spared now that we've confirmed more cases and the disease has spread to a third House." With a visible effort, the witch stiffened her spine. "Well. I shall inform you as needed. Thank you for your cooperation." A brisk nod, and she was gone.

It was a very sombre group that gathered around the fire in the Common Room a few minutes later.

"There must be _something_ we can do," Harry insisted once everybody had had a chance to vent a little. He had no real idea of what it meant to look after a sick person, but surely there were other tasks to perform than merely keeping the younger kids occupied? "We can't just sit on our collective arses and do nothing!"

"What exactly would you suggest, Potter?" Daphne sighed. "None of us is a trained Healer, and while we might help with nursing, I doubt they'll let us, given the high contagiousness!"

"True, but we're also adults, and ultimately responsible for our own actions," Malfoy said quietly, surprising not only his former housemates, but the whole group. "This situation needs more help than just healing."

"Oh? Like what?" Justin asked, his tone half-curious, half-belligerent.

Harry floundered, but only for an instant. "Look, you know that a lot of us didn't _have_ to come back; most could've gone right into whatever job-training they wanted. And even those of us who didn't," he slanted a quick apologetic look at Malfoy and the other ex-Slytherins, "are here because Hogwarts is giving _all_ of us a second chance. The least we can do is try and give something back!"

"Well said, Potter," Malfoy agreed, his whole mien for once without a trace of mockery or sneer. Harry shot him a grateful look that was acknowledged by the tiniest of nods.

Susan Bones stared at them both. "But what _can_ we do?" she asked, rather helplessly.

"I don't know," Harry replied. "But I do know that among us, we have a whole lot of resources the teachers might not think of using … or aren't even aware of."

"Yeah … like Malfoy's good at Potions," Ron admitted reluctantly.

"Why, thanks, Weasel," Malfoy murmured. "And I plan to offer Professor Slughorn my help brewing the antidote and adapting it to the current strain. Barring that, I can at least take over brewing the lesser remedies; dragon pox or not, I don't see the school as a whole suddenly go without Pepper-Up, Bruise Balm or whatever else Madam Pomfrey hands out on a daily basis. My talents will be most likely best utilized that way."

"the git's right, but modest he's not," Ron muttered _sotto__voce_to Harry, who bit back a grin. They might be at the start of a New Era, as the media loved to call these post-war months and efforts, but some things would likely never change. _*Thank__Merlin__for__that!*_

"I'll hate being isolated from the rest of the school again after we've been together such a fairly short time," Hannah sighed, ignoring the byplay. "But we can't afford to fall sick as well." She thought for a moment. "How about we revive the Emergency Room we set up during last year and provide basic medical care to everybody who doesn't need a Mediwitch? You know, like we did to deal with what the Carrows did to us …"

There was a brief embarrassed silence during which nobody dared look at Malfoy and the rest of the former Slytherins. At last, Zabini cleared his throat.

"Sounds like a good idea to me. I'd only suggest to move it to a more accessible location."

"Oh, definitely – after all, we don't need to hide it anymore, do we?"

"Rather the opposite, I'd think," Daphne Greengrass muttered, then squared her shoulders. "Need any help?"

"All that we can get," Neville said calmly, shutting the argument down before it could even start. "Thanks, Daphne. Please coordinate with Susan later, will you?"

"Sure." The Slytherin girl leaned back, a grimly satisfied expression on her face. That easily, an accord was reached, and the eighth-year students settled down to do some serious planning.

"So we're short a lot of people, what with the sixth- and seventh-years still confined to their Houses, but until we know who's been infected and who hasn't, we'll have to make do with just the two dozen or so of us," Justin, the designated note-taker of the evening, summarized with a sigh after a couple of hours of discussion and compiling of lists. "I'll talk to the house-elves about possibly setting up a separate buffet-style dining facility for us – we'll need regular meals as well as snacks if we have to work through mealtimes. Provided the Headmistress gives permission, of course."

"I'm sure she will," Susan Bones remarked, looking over Neville's shoulder as he tried to sort the various lists Justin had handed over into some semblance of order. Bulstrode was waiting with her own quill and parchment, ready to copy out the Emergency Room's most urgent requirements. "It's a good thing that we already have some experience with this kind of thing – can you imagine what it'd be like if we had to organize all of this from scratch?"

"I'm just glad that this time we can be completely open about our activities and can requisition resources without sneaking around and getting punished if we're caught," Seamus said. "No offense, people, I know you weren't happy with the way things were here at Hogwarts last year, either, but it'd have been so much easier if more of you had helped the DA … or at least looked the other way sometimes!"

Most of the ex-Slytherin students coloured; none would meet anybody's eyes for almost a full minute. Then Malfoy cleared his throat and surprised everyone by saying a single word.

"Sorry."

As apologies went, it was totally inadequate – yet it strangely was more than enough.

"It's okay," Neville said quietly.

And somehow it _was_.

xXxo0oxXx

Hermione, Ron and Harry sat and watched in awe as order slowly emerged from chaos, skillfully supervised by Neville Longbottom.

"Blimey, it's as if Nev is organizing a military campaign," Ron murmured.

"No – he's just resuming his role as commander-in-chief," Harry replied with sudden insight. "Because that's what he was last year – the general of Dumbledore's Army!"

"And we have no place in it because we weren't there," Hermione sighed. Much to her surprise, it was Ron who contradicted her.

"There's always room for one more competent person in an army," he said, giving her a quick, one-armed hug. "It's just a matter of fitting the right person to the right job."

Within a very short time, teams were formed and tasks assigned. Former House affiliations went out the window with very little regret; what counted was how seamlessly each student could merge his or her skills and qualifications with others'.

Hermione watched all this, chewing her bottom lip. Slowly, a determined expression settled on her face as she waited for Neville to pause for a much-needed drink after pretty much talking non-stop for the last thirty minutes. "Nev – if Malfoy is helping Professor Slughorn with the antidote, is there anything _I_ can do to help?"

Neville looked at her speculatively. "I know you're the best after Malfoy at Potions, but we have the standard healing stuff pretty well covered," he said slowly. "No offense, but as soon as we know who else is going to be available, I'd rather keep the teams together that already know each other."

"I – I understand," Hermione said, but she couldn't quite suppress the hurt his gentle refusal caused her. But when she was about to turn away, Neville offered her a small, fleeting smile.

"The one thing we _don't_have, though, and which I think would be perfectly suited to you if you're willing to take this on, is a general organizer."

"I – what?"

"We need someone who can set up timetables, organize shifts, keep accurate records, liaise and coordinate with the teachers, make sure everybody gets at least one solid meal a day, enough sleep ... that kind of thing. Also, if there should be any research needed, there's no-one better than you – and it would free the on-site teams to go on with what they're doing. It won't be the most glamorous job, but it's desperately needed – and it's yours if you want it."

"Well, I never cared much about the flashy stuff, anyway," Hermione said after barely a moment's hesitation. She'd always secretly believed herself to be the most organized person at Hogwarts, and it felt good to be validated by others at last. " I'd just as well leave that to someone else who enjoys it more when things go _'boom'_."

"And who would that be, Granger?" Zabini drawled with a cheeky smirk.

"Why, the showy 'Look at me, I'm a Hero' types. Like Neville and Harry," she added with a wink. The chuckles bursting out after her dry pronouncement had a slightly hysterical edge to it and made Harry and Neville blush and stutter, but it was a needed, if brief respite from the tension that permeated the whole castle. "Of course I'll do it."

"Told you – it's all about matching the best person to the right job," Ron whispered in her ear. "Who knew your addiction to colour-coding and drawing up charts would come in handy like that one day? Don't worry, you'll be great." He smiled at her pleased blush and addressed a watching Neville. "So what about me, General? What can _I_ do?"

"How about finding something to keep the healthy ones occupied and out of mischief? As Hermione said earlier, it's winter, so nobody can get outside much; the Room of Requirement is not yet functional again, and not everybody will get sick."

"We hope," Zabini muttered, earning himself more than a few titters and groans. "What? It's true," he defended himself. "Statistics say that …"

He was cut off by a faintly-smirking Malfoy. "Never mind the numbers; Longbottom's right. Within a week we may well have several hundred students between eleven and seventeen years old who'll be bored out of their minds if we don't do something about it." He didn't need to mention the possibilities of colds, other minor infections and – worst-case scenario – injuries sustained in petty fights which were sure to break out once cabin fever set in.

"Somebody check outside if the sky's started to fall yet," Seamus stage-whispered to Ron. "Imagine, Malfoy's admitted that _two_Gryffindors are right about something in a single day!"

"Fuck you, too, Finnegan," Malfoy replied pleasantly, giving the Irishman a two-fingered salute for good measure. As soon as the resultant laughter had died down, though, Ron turned back to Neville.

"Uh, don't get me wrong, I'll do whatever you think best, but why did you choose me for something like this?" He yelped when Tracey Davies rapped him on his head from behind.

"Easy, Weasley – you come from the biggest family we know. What did your parents do with you and your siblings when you were ill as kids?"

He didn't have long to think. "Read, play games, sing, give us puzzles …"

"Exactly. And who has a brother with access to a whole shop of games and stuff?"

"Oh, right …" Ron's blue eyes were thoughtful. George – or rather Weasley's Wizard Wheezes – was definitely the go-to place to keep anyone from boredom, but would he be ready to provide as much as was needed when he was still locked in grief over losing Fred?

Hermione was following his train of thought with familiar ease. "Just ask him," she whispered. "Maybe the idea of cheering up hundreds of kids in an emergency situation is just what he needs to snap out of it. You'll just have to tell him the right way."

Ron nodded. "I can do that," he decided. "Okay, sign me up!"

Which left only Harry with no specific task as yet. He smiled a bit sheepishly as his best friends' eyes converged on him. He really had no particular talent that might be useful. Nor did he hanker for a prominent role to play; any fool could see that his classmates had things well in hand. He looked around and finally saw Malfoy standing at the back of the group. Strangely enough, his carefully neutral expression gave him an idea.

Holding the cool grey eyes with his own, Harry cleared his throat. "I'd like to help Malfoy, if he thinks I can," he said quietly. "If not … well, I suppose I could just be that extra pair of hands that goes wherever it's needed."

"Potter, I spent the last three months bringing your Potions skills up to scratch; I'm not going to waste all that time and effort," Malfoy muttered, daring anyone to object by glaring balefully at the whole group. "You can go pinch-hit elsewhere when there's no prep to be done, but otherwise your arse is mine for the duration!"

"But of course, oh Lord Almighty Muck-a-muck," Harry snarked right back, hiding his elation. "One premium stirring-rod jockey at your service!"

Several pairs of eyes widened in astonishment as the two former arch-enemies continued to trade outrageous insults – and neither hexes nor fists started flying. No, instead the group was treated to the sight of the erstwhile Gryffindor Golden Boy and former Slytherin Ice Prince move to a quiet corner and begin to draw up their own list of which supplies they might need and a schedule in which to organize their brewing.

"There's one miracle already accomplished," Michael Corner told the others. "What's a paltry dragon pox epidemic compared to a peaceful Potter-Malfoy cooperation?"

_To Be Continued …_


End file.
